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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



9 









PRATT PORTRAITS 


SKETCHED IN A NEW ENGLAND 
SUBURB 


ANNA FULLER 

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MAY Q ]gg2 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


NEW YORK LONDON 

27 West Twenty -third St. 24 Bedford St., Strand 

Knickerbocker ^ress 
1892 



Copyright, 1892, by 

ANNA FUI.I.ER 


Electrotyped, Printed, and Bound by 

Ubc Tknicftcrbochcr Press, IRew Jgorft 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER page 

I.—Aunt Betsy’s Photographs . . . i 

11 . — Harriet 28 

III. — A Domestic Crisis . 56 

IV. — Ben’s Wife 84 

V. — A Yankee Quixote 106 

VI. — A New Engeand Quack . . . 131 

VII. — A New England Conscience . . . 157 

VIII. — The Schooemarm 175 

IX. — A VaeEnTine 205 

X.— Oed Eady Pratt 233 

XI.— Mary Anne 255 

XII. — Weee Matched 274 

XIII. — UnceE Bobby 301 


NOTE 


It is owing to the courtesy of Messrs. Harper and 
Brothers that I am permitted to include in this volume 
seven sketches which have previously appeared in Har- 
per^s Bazar ; namely, “ Aunt Betsy’s Photographs,” 
“Harriet,” “Ben’s Wife,” “The Schoolmarm,” “Old 
Eady Pratt,” “Well Matched,” and “Uncle Bobby.” 



PRATT PORTRAITS 


I. 

AUNT BETSY’S PHOTOGRAPHS. 

A unt BETSY lived with her mother, Old 
Eady Pratt, in a small house in Green 
Street. Small as the house was, she 
had never got over the impression that 
it was rather large, and very handsome. Forty- 
five years ago, before she lost her hearing, 
Aunt Betsy, then little Betty Pratt, had heard her 
mother pronounce it to be “ in every respect supe- 
rior ’ ’ to the house they had left, though that had 
been ‘ ‘ a very desirable residence in its day. ’ ’ It 
stood on a quiet little side street, where there 
were no pretentious neighbors to put it out of 
countenance ; a street which slumbered on, so 
undisturbed by the bustle of the town a few blocks 
away that Aunt Betsy used sometimes to wonder 
whether it were not “a little hard o’ hearin’ too.” 

The “new house,” as she still called it in her 
own thoughts, was long and rambling, presenting 


2 


Pratt Portraits. 


a narrow end to the street, upon which only the 
staircase windows looked, and then elongating 
itself surprisingly, away back into what would 
have been the backyard had not the wood-shed 
crowded itself up to the very fence. This obliged 
them to stretch their clothes-line across the long, 
narrow grass-plot, which followed the line of the 
house from back to front — a thing which was 
something of a trial to Aunt Betsy. She never 
thought it quite modest to hang out 5^our under- 
garments in full view of the passers-by, and she 
had sometimes wished that a hedge might be 
planted across the space, just beyond the green 
side-door. But being very much in awe of her 
mother, she had never ventured to suggest any 
such innovation, and had contented herself with 
a persistent effort to have the sheets and table- 
cloths hung on the front line. As she did not 
assign any reason for this arrangement, it is no 
wonder that Eliza, Mrs. Pratt’s “ girl ” — a maiden 
of some sixty odd summers, — regarded it as a 
“whim of Miss Betsy’s,” and was not always 
mindful of so arbitrary a rule. 

Aunt Betsy lived in a very small world indeed, 
and her small world was entirely overshadowed 
by the strong and rather severe influence of her 
mother. She was but ten years old when the 
narrow barriers of her life were flxed irrevocably 
about her soul. 

Only a few days after they moved into the new 
house the little daughter, the youngest of six 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs. 


3 


children, slipped on the steep, narrow backstairs, 
and fell from top to bottom. From that time she 
became almost totally deaf. Whether at the same 
time her faculties were deadened, or whether they 
had become dull from want of incentive from 
without, no one knows. Certain it is that she 
was never the lively, intelligent child that Mrs. 
Pratt had every right to expect a child of hers to 
be. 

She was now a tall, rather corpulent woman, 
with somewhat flabby cheeks, and little appear- 
ance of “backbone,” wherein she presented a 
striking contrast to her small, upright mother, 
who even in her eighty-fifth year never leaned 
back in her chair, and whose bright black eyes 
could startle Betsy, with a look which seemed 
positively shrill to the poor old woman, in the 
eternal silence of her consciousness. 

For she grew to be an old woman after a time. 
See saw her brothers and sisters leave their home, 
one after another, and make new homes for them- 
selves ; her father, who had been gentle with her, 
“departed hence,” and, last of all, Ben, her 
favorite brother, took to himself a wife, and moved 
into Bliss Street. 

Ben was a kindly soul, of few words, who had 
always got on better than any one else with Betsy. 
For instead of trying to talk to her, and getting 
impatient when she did not hear, he had a way of 
turning upon her now and then a broad, beaming 
smile as delightful as a whole conversation. On 


4 


Pratt Portraits. 


his wedding day he made Betsy a present, which 
remained her dearest possession as long as she 
lived. It was a large glass pin, containing a lock 
of her father’s hair, and bordered with a row of 
small seed-pearls. On the golden back was in- 
scribed, in old English letters, 

txxfm g. 

She wore it on Sundays, and when the minister 
came to tea, and at the christenings and weddings 
of her nieces and nephews. The rest of the time 
it reposed in a small satin-lined box, together 
with a camelian ring which her mother thought 
she was too old to wear, and a stray onyx sleeve- 
button which had belonged to her father. 

She felt sorry to have Ben go, and she told him 
so, in an unsteady voice that went to the kind 
fellow’s heart ; but then she supposed it was 
“ natural enough,” and she submitted, quite un- 
complainingly, to the life alone with her sharp- 
eyed mother, which was to reach on and on into 
the future. 

Happily, Betsy did not think much about the 
future. She was a placid soul, not realizing very 
clearly how much brighter other lives were than 
hers. She loved her canary-bird and the great 
” Malty ” cat, Topsy by name, which attained to 
a fabulous age, living in undisputed possession 
of the one really comfortable chair in the sitting- 


Aunt Betsy's Photographs, 


5 


room. And, above all, she found companionship 
in her flowers. Every one gave her slips and seed- 
lings, and marvelled at her success in raising 
them. The sunny south window in the wood- 
shed was the nursery for these pets of hers, and 
not until they were fairly flowering were they 
promoted to the green wire stand in the sitting- 
room. The neighbors used to praise her skill 
and ask her advice, and even her mother would 
sometimes betray a pride in this “faculty” of 
Betsy’s. 

“ Betsy,” she would say, when Mrs. Baxter 
had come in with her knitting to pass the after- 
noon — “Betsy, you go out into the wood-shed 
and fetch in that little flower that blowed this 
mornin’. Mis’ Baxter would like to see it, 
mebbe.” 

She did not succeed so well with the children 
growing up about her. She was a little shy of 
them, of their gay chatter, which she could not 
understand, and their childish egotism. They all 
loved Grandma, or, as she had now become. 
Great-grandmamma Pratt. She made such good 
jokes, and laughed, and was interested in all 
their doings. But Aunt Betsy just sat there with 
her worsted- work, and didn’t hear when she 
was spoken to unless you quite shouted in her 
ear, and then she jumped in such a funny way, 
and seemed so flustered. Why, she could n’ t even 
‘ ‘ make a cheese ’ ’ for them, when the big hoops 
came into fashion, by twirling round and round 


6 


Pratt Portraits, 


and then suddenly sitting plump down on the floor 
with her skirts rising in billows about her. 
Aunt Kmmeline could do it, and Aunt Martha, 
and ’most any body, but Aunt Betsy said it made 
her head giddy. Aunt Betsy was “ no good.” 

Sometimes, when Betsy found how startling 
and troublesome these small specimens of hu- 
manity were, she was almost reconciled to being 
an old maid. .She knew that her mother was a 
good deal mortified at having a child who had 
never ‘ ‘ had an offer, ’ ’ and she felt hot and un- 
comfortable as often as she thought of a certain 
temptation which had assailed her many years 
ago. It was when the neighborhood was stirred 
and shocked by the sudden death of young Alfred 
Williams, an amiable though impecunious mem- 
ber of Green Street society, who had been left 
over, as it were, from among her sister Jane’s 
admirers. Betsy was at that time about twenty- 
one years old, and Alfred had continued coming 
in pretty regularly to tea of an evening after the 
disappearance of Jane from the family circle. 
The goodness of the fare may have been an at- 
traction, or perhaps he really liked Betsy, though 
he gave no sign. However that may have been, 
his visits had not passed unnoted by the neigh- 
bors, and the morning he died Mrs. Baxter came 
in to discuss the news. 

“ He was a very well favored young man, I am 
sure,” said she, ” and a great loss to our circle. 
Dr. Baxter says he has heard that his employers 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs, 7 

had entire confidence in him. And, by-the-way , ’ ’ 
she added, turning to Betsy, and raising her voice 
to its highest pitch, “ I always thought that 
Alfred had rather a leaning to you, Betsy.” 

This speech threw Betsy into such an unwonted 
tremor and flutter that she blushed violently, and 
looked guilty of a hundred tender passages. 

The moment their visitor had departed, Mrs. 
Pratt beckoned her daughter to her side on the 
sofa and asked, in her penetrating voice, “Did he 
ever say anything, Betsy ? ’ ’ 

I fancy that Betsy, at the moment, would have 
given half her life’s purchase to say “ Yes ” ; but 
something within her which no limitations could 
stunt, a perfectly well developed New England 
conscience, compelled her to answer : 

“ No, Mother, he never said a word.” 

So the stigma of the unsought rested upon poor 
Betsy, and her last chance was lost of rising in 
her mother’s esteem. 

Before she was forty her mother put her into 
caps, which she never changed the fashion of. 
They were flat on top and very bunchy at the 
sides, with purple or green ribbons, which bobbed 
up and down when she moved her head. She 
got a habit of letting her head “joggle” a little 
as she bent over her worsted-work or tatting, 
much to the disgust of her mother, who tried to 
break her of it. But her mother’s admonitions 
used to frighten her so that she lost control of 
herself in that peremptory little woman’s presence, 


8 


Pratt Portraits, 


and her head only shook the harder. When she 
was alone in her room she could almost always 
get it steady again. She used to sit in front of 
the glass, seeing how still she could hold her 
head ; and, curiously enough, this study of her 
own countenance, so new and yet so fascinating, 
developed a singular vanity in her which no one 
would have dreamed of suspecting. Especially 
of a Sunday, when she had on her “shot-silk ’’ 
gown, with Brother Ben’s pin fastening the broad 
flat collar, and when her best cap rested on her 
gray locks, she would look deprecatingly at her 
fat, amiable old face, and wonder if blue eyes 
were not “ ’most as pretty as black, ’ ’ and whether, 
if she had not been so deaf, she too might not 
have had offers like the other women she 
knew. 

It was about this time — that is, when Aunt 
Betsy was well on in the fifties — ^that photography 
was first invented, and her brothers and sisters 
began coming in with little card pictures of them- 
selves and their families. All the neighborhood 
was excited about these wonderful likenesses, to 
be got at three dollars a dozen, and so much more 
satisfactory than theold daguerreotypes, which one 
had fio turn this way and that to see them at all. 
Even Grandma was at last persuaded to sit for 
hers, and it had been in such demand that two 
dozen had been ordered on the spot, and they had 
“gone off like hot cakes,’’ as Brother Ben kept 
saying over and over again. 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs, 9 

Aunt Betsy was never tired of studying these 
black-and-white representations of her relatives, 
and she secretly cherished a hope that some one 
would propose her sitting for hers. Nobody 
thought of such a thing, however, though one of 
her sisters gave her a small photograph album 
bound in purple cloth. This did not fill up very 
fast, as Grandma always had to have the new pho- 
tographs, and not many people were prepared to 
squander two specimens on one family. She had 
her mother, looking unnaturally meek without 
her spectacles, and Brother Ben and Sister Harriet, 
besides the youngest babies in the family, whose 
mothers really could not refuse the lovely things 
to any one who asked for them. But this was 
all. 

By and by the new sensation was a little past, 
and other subjects of interest came up, lacking 
pictorial illustration — subjects in which Aunt 
Betsy could not take so intelligent a part. 

Now Aunt Betsy had always a little store of 
money, which her well-to-do brothers and sisters 
kept her supplied with. Her sister Harriet 
particularly was “quite a rich woman,” as Old 
Lady Pratt took some pride in stating, and rode 
in her carriage ; and not infrequently she made 
her sister Betsy a present of a quarter or even 
half a dollar. Betsy, who was a hospitable 
soul, used to wait upon their guests to the door, 
and say, in a tone of mild entreaty, no matter 
what the length of the visit might have been : 


lO 


Pratt Portraits, 


“ Do come agin, when you can stay longer.” 

In response to which little formula Sister Har- 
riet would often slip a bit of paper currency into 
her hand, and say ; 

” Thank you, Betsy. There ! There ’s a trifle 
for your worsted- work.” 

And to that purpose the money was usually 
devoted ; for, so small was Aunt Betsy’s world, 
that even objects of charity seldom found their 
way into it, and the contribution box, with its 
mute appeal, never crossed her vision. Her 
mother had long ago decreed that ‘ ‘ there was no 
sense in Betsy’s goin’ to meetin’. She could n’t 
hear a syllable, and it was a shame to go to the 
Tord’s House jest to stare about you.” 

So the money which might have swelled the 
missionary exchequer went to the purchase of 
very brilliant colored worsteds, which were always 
utilized in the following manner : Aunt Betsy 
would work on canvas, in black cross-stitch, the 
outline of hearts, ingeniously arranged, so that 
the lobe of one furnished the point for the next 
above it. These hearts were filled in, each with 
a different colored worsted, the small diamond- 
shaped spaces between being wrought in bright 
yellow silk, and thus pin-cushions and sofa pillows 
were made and sown broadcast throughout the 
family. 

Betsy was also skilled in making tape trim- 
ming for underclothes, and she had a wooden 
frame on which she sometimes embroidered 


A unt Betsy s Photographs. 1 1 

rather unsubstantial lace. But she much pre- 
ferred to work in colors. ‘ ‘ Colors are so speak- 
ing,” as she used to say to herself. Her special 
pride was a sofa cushion she once worked for 
Sister Harriet, which contained three hundred 
and twenty-four hearts, no two of which were 
done in the same shade of worsted. 

There came a time when Aunt Betsy felt that 
if she did not have her picture taken before she 
grew any older and shakier, it would be too great 
a disappointment ; and one day, when her mother 
was gone to “ pass the afternoon with Harriet,” 
Aunt Betsy, feeling as though she were commit- 
ting a theft, took three dollars from her upper 
bureau drawer, tied up the bandbox containing 
her best cap, and, arrayed in her “shot silk” 
gown and Brother Ben’s pin, set out with palpi- 
tating heart for the photograph saloon. It was 
her first visit to the place, but she knew the 
entrance well. 

The short walk was accomplished all too soon, 
and long before she had gathered courage she 
found herself confronted with the great glass 
case, filled with specimens of the photographer’s 
art, on which she had often gazed with admira- 
tion. As she stopped a moment to study the 
stony or smirking features of her fellow-towns- 
men, she received an unexpected shock. In the 
very middle of the case, a strangely familiar 
countenance met her eye, and seemingly returned 
her gaze with the light of recognition. The 


12 


Pratt Portraits, 


photograph was enlarged to about ten times its 
normal size, and had thus become a startlingly 
realistic presentment of the original. It was no 
other than Sister Harriet, with her jet-black 
“false front,” her white muslin “bosom,” and 
the large diamond ring on the forefinger of her 
right hand. Betsy’s heart almost stopped beat- 
ing as she gazed, fascinated, into the familiar 
face ; but its expression of fixed self-compla- 
cency could not, even to her guilty conscience, 
seem disapproving, and somewhat encouraged 
she respectfully took her leave of it, and began 
the ascent of the four flights of stairs which led 
to the photographic Parnassus. 

Arrived, panting and perturbed, at the door, 
which opened directly at the head of the stairs, 
it was some time before she could make up her 
mind to go into the mysterious sanctuary where 
occult arts were practised ; and besides, she kept 
telling herself that if she were to meet one of her 
acquaintances she should “sink through the 
floor.” In this respect Fate was kind ; for when 
at last she summoned courage to open the door 
and go in, she found the room untenanted. A 
strange uncanny odor greeted her entrance into 
the bare, empty room, and she looked about her 
with a vague uneasiness, half expecting to see a 
wicked magician emerge from the curtained glass 
door in one comer of the room. To her infinite 
relief, a meek-looking little man of a blond com- 
plexion came forward and politely offered his 
services. 


Aunt Betsy's Photographs. 13 

“ Is this Mr. Billings, the photographer ? ” she 
asked, in an awe-struck tone. 

‘ ‘ At your service, madam, ’ ’ he replied. If only 
Aunt Betsy could have heard the deferential 
words and tone ! 

‘ ‘ I came to sit for my photograph. ’ ’ 

“ Certainly, madam ; certainly. Will you step 
into the operating-room ? ’ ’ 

“I am a little hard of hearing,” said Aunt 
Betsy, with an inclination of the head ; and per- 
ceiving, after several attempts, that she was indeed 
“ a little hard of hearing,” the little man shouted, 
in a voice that would have done credit to a masto- 
don : ‘ ‘ The operating-room is this way. ’ ’ 

The ghastly word struck terror to Aunt Betsy’s 
soul, and her head began to shake nervously. 
“There must be some mistake,” she faltered, 
though speaking with all the dignity she could 
command. “ I wish to sit for my photograph.” 

“ Certainly, madam ; certainly. Just step this 
way, if you please ’ ’ ; and with a reassuring smile 
and a cheerful alacrity not to be resisted, he led 
the way into the adjoining room. 

It was a dazzlingly bright apartment, with a 
bare yet cluttered look, which Aunt Betsy could 
not approve. There were chairs and tables in 
meaningless situations, pictured screens leaning 
helplessly against one another, and the evil-look- 
ing tripod mysteriously draped in green baize. 

“ Mr. Billings, the photographer,” disappeared 
behind the screens, and left Aunt Betsy standing, 
dazed, in the middle cf the room. 


Pratt Portraits, 


H 

Suddenly the mastodon voice at her ear shouted: 
“Are you fond of foreign travel, ma’am? Here 
is a very handsome ruin for a background.” 

Turning, with a start. Aunt Betsy beheld a 
screen decorated with broken Corinthian columns 
and a Roman aqueduct. She thought it very 
fine, but before she had time to confess that she 
had never been out of Middlevale County, the 
obliging young man had whisked out a wonderful 
landscape, representing a majestic water-fall and 
several impossible trees. 

“Perhaps you prefer a bit of nature, ma’am,” 
he roared. That, too, was very beautiful, but 
both seemed to her a little ambitious for a person 
who had never seen a water-fall, nor dreamed of 
a Roman aqueduct. There was a familiar look 
about those Corinthian pillars, which she asso- 
ciated with Sister Harriet’s picture ; but then, it 
would not be presumptuous in Sister Harriet, who 
might have travelled in foreign parts any time 
these ten years, if it had not been for that dan- 
gerous ocean. 

While she was pondering thus on the fitness of 
things, the indefatigable Mr. Billings produced 
another screen, covered with grape-vines such as 
grew on the wood-shed at home. And then, oh, 
wonder of wonders ! he drew forth a wicket gate 
of the most picturesque description, and placed it 
alluringly before the grape-vine. 

“There, madam ! ” he shouted, “ if you would 
stand in a natural attitude behind that gate, with 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs. 


15 


your right hand upon the top, as though about to 
pass through, I think you would find the effect 
artistic.” 

This was a long effort for the mastodon voice, 
but the word ‘ ‘ artistic ’ ’ was distinctly audible, 
and the young man placed his own hand upon the 
gate in a manner which appealed so strongly to 
Aunt Betsy’s imagination that she assented timidly 
to the arrangement. Mr. Billings then kindly 
anticipated a difficulty which would have seemed 
to Aunt Betsy insurmountable, by showing her 
into a small closet, furnished with a looking glass 
and a gas-jet, where she could remove her bonnet 
and don her cap without ‘ ‘ exposing ’ ’ herself. 

When she returned she found Mr. Billings 
handling some queer little slates resembling those 
which the children carried to school. He slipped 
one into the camera, and then, coming forward, 
proceeded to station his “subject” in front of 
the grape-vine, her right hand, in a black lace 
mitt, reposing upon the wicket gate, and her volu- 
minous skirts spreading on either side. Then a 
tall iron stand was placed at her back, and a pair 
of cold prongs inserted under the purple ribbons 
behind each ear ; after which Mr. Billings with- 
drew behind his camera and enveloped his head 
in the green baize. For a moment it seemed to 
Aunt Betsy almost as though he were trifling with 
her, but when he again emerged, with his face 
very red and his hair much dishevelled, there was 
a look of professional gravity and concentration 


6 


Pratt Portraits, 


upon his amiable countenance which dispelled 
such thoughts ; and even when he tripped back 
to her and took her temples delicately between 
his thumbs and lightly chucked her under the 
chin to improve the pose, she felt convinced 
that the sudden flush which mounted to her brow 
was quite uncalled for. 

Having moved off a little, cocked his head first 
on one side and then on the other, Mr. Billings 
again retreated beneath the green baize. In a 
moment he came smiling back, rubbing his hands 
together and murmuring : “ Excellent, really ex- 
cellent ’ ’ ; and then, in stentorian tones he shouted: 
“Would you be kind enough to moisten your 
lips, madam ? Thank you. Now fix your eyes on 
that black spot on the wall. Look pleasant. 
Yes — ^very good, very good. Wink freely, but 
do not move your head. ’ ’ 

Oh, the comfort of those iron tongs ! 

Vaguely wishing that she had such a pair at 
home, Aunt Betsy braced her untrustworthy head 
against them and stood in the glaring light, her 
eyes fixed upon the foolish black spot which 
danced perplexingly before her, her lips tightly 
closed, and a strange, unearthly look graven upon 
her countenance. 

When release came, the poor old lady was 
almost too cramped to move or to feel the exulta- 
tion natural to a released victim. Truly, the 
‘ ‘ operating-room ’ ’ was aptly named, in those 
first stages of the black-and-white art. 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs. 17 

But, a few minutes later, when Aunt Betsy paid 
her three dollars in advance and engaged to call 
for the photographs, — “Thank you, I would 
rather not give my address or have them sent 
home — I want to surprise my folks,” — a delicious 
feeling came over her of living in a wonderful 
age, and of being, at last, fully abreast of the 
times. 

Some days of suppressed excitement passed, 
and at last the photographs were finished and 
delivered into her hands, and she knew, with a 
guilty knowledge, that the time had come for her 
to ‘ ‘ surprise her folks. ’ ’ She hurried home, look- 
ing neither to the right nor to the left, the pre- 
cious package buried in the depths of her pocket, 
entered the house surreptitiously as a burglar, 
and crept up to her own room. When the door 
was securely fastened, she took a long breath, 
and then proceeded, not to examine the pictures, 
but to put her bonnet and shawl carefully away, 
smooth her hair with a fine-tooth comb, and 
adjust her cap before the glass ; then she tied on 
her black silk apron, and sat down by the open 
window, holding the little package in her hand. 

It was a brilliant September day, and she sat 
looking out into the great horse-chestnut tree 
before the window. Her father had planted it 
forty -five years ago, for he liked to have horse- 
chestnuts ‘ ‘ handy. ’ ’ He firmly believed that 
they would ward off rheumatism if carried in the 
pocket ; and sure enough, as Aunt Betsy reflected, 


i8 


Pratt Portraits, 


he had never had a twinge of rheumatism in the 
sixty odd years of his life ! 

In the horse-chestnut tree was a bird-cote in 
the shape of a white-steepled ‘ ‘ meeting-house. ’ ’ 
A fat little sparrow, perched on the door-sill of 
this minute edifice, was chirping sharply. Aunt 
Betsy watched his agitated little body, but did not 
hear him chirp. In the yard Eliza, the “ girl,” 
was vigorously pumping, causing a stream of 
water to gush noisily into the pail, and Aunt 
Betsy could see the neighbor’s dog barking vo- 
ciferously at a cat in a tree. But none of these 
sounds penetrated the heavy silence in which she 
was wrapped about. Only the beating of her 
pulse throbbed in her ears, and in a nervous 
tremor she delayed opening the package, much 
as a young girl might delay breaking the seal of 
a love-letter when once she had it in secure pos- 
session. So alike are sensations firom totally 
different causes, and sensations of any kind being 
rare in Aunt Betsy’s experience, she might well 
linger a little over this one. 

But at last she had drawn one of the little cards 
from the package, and held it in her hand, and as 
the pleasant south wind fluttered her cap ribbons, 
and the afternoon sun shone kindly upon her, she 
looked shyly at her pictured countenance, and a 
sense of deep satisfaction transfused itself through 
her. 

There was no mistaking the contour of her best 
cap ; and as for the breastpin, she could almost 


Aunt Betsy's Photographs, 19 

count the seed-pearls in the rim, while the ‘ ‘ ar- 
tistic effect ’ ’ of that wicket-gate seemed to her 
“too pretty for anything.” The rigidity of the 
attitude quite escaped her uncritical eye, and she 
failed to observe that the accustomed look of mild 
benevolence which sat so well on her plain face 
was here turned to an expression of almost sav- 
age intensity, as much out of place as a frown on 
a rabbit’s countenance. 

Yes, Aunt Betsy’s dream was realized. She 
held in her hand twelve unmistakable likenesses 
of her ‘ ‘ Sunday things, ’ ’ and they gave her as 
much pleasure as the most brilliant colored paper- 
doll had caused her when she was a little girl in 
the old house, and could hear the delightful rattle 
of the blue and red and yellow papers. Even a 
bit of color was not lacking to her new treasures, 
for the photographer had touched the cheeks of 
the counterfeit Aunt Betsy with spots of vivid 
carmine. 

A spot almost as bright glowed in each cheek of 
the flesh-and-blood Aunt Betsy as she descended 
into the sitting-room, not, indeed, to “surprise 
her folks. ’ ’ She could not yet rid herself of the 
feeling of guilt connected with the whole transac- 
tion, and she dreaded lest her mother should call 
her a fool, as she had promptly done whenever 
her docile daughter had committed any mild in- 
discretion, such as wishing for a “false front” 
when her hair became gray, or wondering whether 
the minister, when he came to tea, might not pre- 


20 


Pratt Portraits, 


fer fancy tarts, such as Sister Harriet’s new-fan- 
gled cook made, to the old-fashioned mince-pies. 

“ Betsy, you ’re a fool ! ” when pronounced by 
Old lyady Pratt, never failed to penetrate the muf- 
fled hearing like a gun-shot, and Betsy used to 
wish within herself that her mother would put it 
a little differently. 

Poor Aunt Betsy had been so promptly put 
down in her life that she had never before had the 
sensation of committing an out-and-out indiscre- 
tion. Now, at least, she had it, and her mother’s 
quick eye instantly detected the unwonted flush. 

‘ ‘ Betsy, ’ ’ cried the alert old lady, ‘ ‘ come here. 
Let me feel your pulse ! Goodness me, child ! 
You ’re in a high fever ! You ’ve caught a cold ! 
You ain’t been settin’ by an open window ? ” 

The gray-haired culprit admitted that she had. 

“ Betsy, you ’re a fool ! You al’ays was full of 
romantic notions about open windows. You ’ll 
jest go right straight to bed, and drink a cup of 
pennyr’yal tea. Do you hear ? ’ ’ 

Betsy heard. Old Lady Pratt’s reproofs were 
always audible, even to her, and her commands 
were not to be questioned. So Aunt Betsy was 
packed away to bed, while the exultation died 
out within her, and the old patient compliance 
returned in its place. She lay there in a gentle 
apathy, watching the last ray of sunlight die 
away on the flowered wall, and waiting resign- 
edly for the unsavory dose. 

Presently the door opened, and the straight 


Aunt Betsy's Photographs, 


21 


little figure of Mrs. Pratt entered, well lighted up 
by the candle she held in one hand, while in the 
other she bore a smoking bowl of tea.' Her own 
cheeks were somewhat flushed from bending over 
the fire. She set the candle on the high bureau, 
tasted the tea herself once or twice, and then, 
without much ceremony, poured the scalding 
draught down her patient’s throat ; after which 
she felt her pulse again, and asked to see her 
tongue. 

“I declare for ’t ” she cried, “if you ’re not 
better a’ ready ! There never was anything like 
my pennyr’yal tea for stoppin’ a cold off short ! 
Now you turn over and go right to sleep, and 
you ’ll be as good as new in the mornin’.’’ 

The old lady meant kindly ; but what words 
could sound kind, spoken in a high falsetto? 
Poor Aunt Betsy ! I wonder if she herself real- 
ized what she missed in never hearing the voices 
of her fellow-creatures in their natural tones. No 
one could ever speak tenderly to her, nor sooth- 
ingly, nor confidentially. All those softer accents, 
so much more eloquent than words, must be for- 
ever lost to her ; she could only know the voices 
of her friends in the harsh, strained pitch which 
they must take to reach her ears. 

Days and weeks went by after Betsy’s won- 
derful cure and the secret of her escapade was 
still her own. She shrank more and more from 
confessing what she had done, and yet she was 
tortured by the feeling that it had been a “ dread- 


22 


Pratt Portraits, 


ful waste of money,” if she was going to keep 
those twelve photographs for herself. She some- 
times thought of confessing the whole thing to 
kind Brother Ben, or of boldly offering a “pic- 
ture ’ ’ to Sister Harriet ; but, at the very sugges- 
tion, her whole family seemed to rise before her 
in scorn and derision, and she seemed to hear a 
chorus of brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, 
joining in her mother’s piercing denunciation, 
“You ’re a fool, Betsy ! you ’re a fool ! ” 

She began to have a distaste for the things, and 
to entertain daring thoughts of putting them all 
into the kitchen fire. But she knew that would 
be an abominably weak and wicked proceeding, 
and she was not sufficiently hardened to do it. 

It was really wearing upon her. She did not 
sleep, as she had been used, from ten o’clock at 
night till five or six in the morning ; she lost 
her appetite little by little, and her grateful smile 
came less readily in response to unintelligible 
remarks addressed to her by afternoon callers. 
Old I^ady Pratt confided to Harriet that she was 
‘ ‘ afeard Betsy was goin’ to break up early ; she 
seemed to be losing her sperit. ’ ’ 

Poor Betsy, as though she had ever had any 
spirit to lose ! 

So nearly three months wore away, and Aunt 
Betsy began to fear that she had sacrificed her 
peace of mind for good and all. 

One Sunday afternoon in December, Brother Ben 
came in with his youngest daughter Hattie, a girl 


A unt Betsy s Photographs, 


23 


about twelve years old. They were both lightly 
sprinkled with snow, and after tramping about a 
good deal on the oil-cloth in the entry, they came 
smiling in, bringing a gust of cold air with 
them. 

“Well, Mother; well Betsy,” Ben began, im- 
mediately. “Hattie ’s got a surprise for you. 
She ’s been having her picture taken again, all 
dressed up in her Red Riding-hood cape. She 
looks mighty cute ; you just see if she don’t.” 

And Hattie, proud and pleased, exhibited the 
picture to her admiring elders. The slender, 
hooded form in the photograph was standing be- 
hind the little wicket gate which Aunt Betsy 
knew so well, and Grandma was much taken 
with it. 

“Well, I never ! ” she cried. “ How cute it is, 
to be sure ! Who but Hattie Pratt would have 
thought of being taken cornin’ through a 
gate ? ” 

And impressed with the weight of her own 
remark, she repeated it in her shrillest tones 
to Betsy. 

“Who indeed?” thought Betsy, longing, but 
not daring to lay claim to equal brilliancy. 

“ It was a pretty idea,” she said, meekly. “ I 
wish you ’d give me one, Hattie, to put in my 
photograph album.’ 

Hattie looked up brightly at her deaf old 
aunt, and said, with decision, “ I don’t give these 
away ; I only exchange. ’ ’ 


24 


Pratt Portraits. 


“But, Hattie,” said her father, “you’d give 
your Aunt Betsy one ! You know she never had 
her picture taken.” 

“Then she’ll have to, if she wants mine,” 
said the pert little person. 

‘ ‘ What did she say ? ’ ’ asked Aunt Betsy, a 
great resolution already half formed in her mind. 

“ She says you ’d better have your own picture 
taken before you go askin’ other people for 
theirs,” said Grandma, not ill-pleased to hear 
Betsy snubbed for her unreasonableness in want- 
ing a picture all to herself 

It was now or never, and Betsy knew it. 

“Very well,” she said, rising, and looking an 
inch taller. “I ’ll exchange with you.” And 
she marched out of the room, erect and deter- 
mined leaving her family speechless with aston- 
ishment. 

Without giving herself time to think of conse- 
quences, she seized her twelve photographs, and 
hurried back to the sitting-room. 

“ There ! ” she said, rather explosively, “ you 
can have your choice, Hattie. ’ ’ 

Old Tady Pratt, doubting her senses, seized one 
of the pictures, looked at it, then looked at Betsy. 
The likeness was unmistakable ; it was ‘ ‘ Betsy 
all over,” as she admitted to herself But she 
was so divided in her mind between horror at her 
daughter’s duplicity, and admiration of her 
‘ ‘ smartness, ’ ’ that she let Ben have the first word. 
He came nobly to the rescue. 


Aunt Betsy's Photographs. 


25 


“ Well, Betsy ! ” he cried. “ If you ain’t a sly 
one ! Think of that, Mother. To go all by her- 
self, as independent as a chipmunk, and have her 
picture taken ! Well, you have given us a sur- 
prise, Betsy ! ” ' 

Betsy heard nothing of this, and not daring to 
look at her mother and Ben, she watched Hattie, 
who was gazing with the greatest interest at the 
picture. Presently Hattie looked up into her 
aunt’s troubled face, and with a sudden intuition, 
perhaps the first movement of genuine sympathy 
she had ever known, the girl took in the situa- 
tion. She jumped up, and giving her aunt a 
hearty kiss, cried : 

“ Thank you so much, Aimt Betsy. It ’s ever 
so good. I believe I ’d rather have a picture 
of you than of ’most any body — ^that I have n’t 
got,” she added, truthfully. 

Aunt Betsy heard every word of this kind little 
scream, but she was almost too embarrassed to 
answer. 

“Why, Hattie,” she stammered, “I’m so 
glad ! I did n’t know ’ ’ 

“Oh! you’re a sly one,” roared Ben. “I 
always said you were a sly one, and did n’t tell 
all you knew I Is n’t she a sly one. Mother? ” 

“ Well,” screamed Mrs. Pratt, “ it was mighty 
clever of you to be taken behind that wicket gate, 
I must say. And your shot silk has come out 
beautifully. ’ ’ 

Aunt Betsy felt very much as a released convict 


26 


Pratt Portraits. 


must feel if met by a band of music and a delega- 
tion of distinguished citizens, announcing to him 
that he had been elected mayor of the city. From 
the very start she perceived that those photo- 
graphs were to be the success of her life. Bach 
member of the family insisted upon having one, 
and all the neighbors admired them and offered to 
exchange. Aunt Betsy’s album filled up fast. 
Brother Ben had two dozen more struck off at his 
own expense, and for days and days Aunt Betsy 
lived in a delightful flutter of excitement. The 
most indolent of their visitors would exert herself 
to scream, “ Betsy, I hear you ’ve been sitting for 
your picture ’ ’ ; and not a day went by without 
an exhibition of the ever dwindling number. 

The crowning moment came on New Year’s 
Day, when Brother Ben arrived, bringing a mys- 
terious flat parcel, which he presented to his 
mother, with a roguish side glance at Betsy. She 
looked on with lively curiosity, but little prepared 
for what was coming. There, in a shiny black 
frame, was an enormously enlarged copy of 
Betsy’s picture, in which the pin seemed almost 
life-size, and the expression of stern determina- 
tion was fairly appalling. 

Perhaps Old Bady Pratt had never felt so fond 
and proud of Betsy since she was a bright little 
child like other children, as she did when she 
gazed upon that ‘ ‘ handsome picture. ’ ’ 

It was hung up in the best parlor, over the hair- 
cloth sofa ; and later in the day, when mother and 


Aunt Betsy s Photographs, 


27 


daughter stood side by side before it, the sharp 
little old lady laid her hand with an affectionate 
pressure on the other’s shoulder, and said : 
“That ’s about the smartest thing you ever did, 
Betsy, I declare for ’t.’’ 

And I think Betsy went to bed that night the 
happiest old woman in Green Street. 


HARRIET. 


H arriet had always been an authority 
in her small world ; and it was not such 
a very small world either, as worlds go. 
Not only was she a person of conse- 
quence, now, when she was the head of a family 
and mistress of a fortune — her importance was 
of longer standing than that. To begin with, she 
had been the eldest of a family of brothers and 
sisters, who had looked up to her with an unques- 
tioning respect, which even an eldest sister is by 
no means sure of inspiring. But Harriet was ‘ ‘ her 
mother’s own child,” upright and firm, with that 
natural self-respect which is a law unto itself. 
Such an advantage, while sparing its possessor 
many a brush with those in authority, invests 
him with a nimbus of infallibility very impressive 
to younger and less well-balanced minds. Mrs. 
Anson Pratt, to be sure, was not the woman to 
yield the reins of government to any rival power, 
yet her daughter Harriet early became her chief 
adviser in such small matters of family economy 
and discipline as she thought unworthy the 


Harriet. 


29 

consideration of her husband’s larger intelli- 
gence. 

Under these favoring conditions Harriet grew 
to be a tall, self-possessed maiden ; and as the 
handsomest and cleverest young woman of his 
acquaintance, was early wooed and won by the 
handsome and clever young business man James 
Spencer. 

Indeed prosperity had marked her for its own 
from her very cradle. For while she was still in 
undisputed possession of that infant refuge, her 
mother’s bachelor brother, William Kingsbury, 
had died, leaving to his little niece a legacy of 
two thousand dollars. This befell in the good old 
times when two thousand dollars was a tidy sum, 
and when money, being properly invested, 
doubled itself faster than is the case to-day. As 
their family increased in numbers a trifle faster 
than the family income grew, Anson Pratt and 
his wife would often remind one another that 
“Harriet was well provided for.” The Pratts 
were plain, unworldly people, not at all inclined 
to pay undue deference to riches ; yet one is 
tempted to wonder 'whether, if the little Harriet’s 
future had been less assured, she might not 
sometimes have been called Hattie. The fact of 
never having known the levelling influences of a 
nickname is in itself not without weight in the 
sum of one’s personal dignity. 

During the many prosperous years that had 
elapsed since she had become Mrs. James Spencer, 


30 


Pratt Portraits, 


Harriet had tasted, one after another, the natural 
joys and the natural sorrows of life, and now that 
she was nearing the further boundaries of middle 
life she had become more and more the practical 
woman — the woman of affairs ; the woman who 
was oftener appealed to for counsel than for sym- 
pathy. Her smooth ‘ ‘ false front, ’ ’ her black eyes, 
her straight nose and well-closed mouth were all 
calculated to command respect. She was tall, and 
she felt her height ; physically as well as men- 
tally and morally she was unbending. 

Even her great sorrow, the death of her hus- 
band, which had occurred fifteen years previous, 
had come to be to her a regrettable fact rather than 
an active emotion. Years and a strong will had 
done their work. 

Yet for many weeks after James Spencer’s 
death Harriet had felt with consternation that she 
was not self-sufficient. A strange, unreasoning 
sense of helplessness had oppressed her, which 
was even harder to bear than her actual grief. 

The most vivid memory which she had of her 
husband’s last days was that of a certain gloomy 
afternoon in November, when she had sat at his 
bedside, and they had taken counsel together for 
the last time. It was several days before his 
death, which they both knew to be close at hand. 
She had been sitting, erect and self-contained, 
while her husband slept, sternly denying herself 
the luxury of grief, simply facing the inevitable 
with rigid endurance. The rain was pattering 


Harriet. 


31 


upon the tin roof of the piazza beneath the win- 
dows, and the sky was dreary as her thoughts. It 
seemed to her afterward that that pattering rain, 
which continued persistently for three days, had 
worn a groove in her consciousness, causing her 
to shrink from the sound as from a physical pain. 
Her family wondered that she should have her 
piazza roof shingled almost immediately after 
James’ death, and her mother. Old I^ady Pratt, 
declared it to be a “ downright piece of extrava- 
gance,” and hoped she ” was n’t goin’ to be dis- 
app’inted in Harriet after all these years.” But 
Harriet knew that when the shingles dulled the 
sound of the pattering drops she could think more 
naturally of her trouble, and it was peculiarly 
necessary that she should allow nothing to dis- 
turb her balance. For the same event which had 
taken from her a strong support had also imposed 
upon her unaccustomed responsibilities. On that 
dreary afternoon, which she remembered so well, 
her husband had quietly opened his eyes, and 
without making any other movement to indicate 
his return to consciousness, he had said : ‘ ‘ Har- 
riet, I have left all the money to you.” 

This simplicity of speech was characteristic of 
James Spencer. He had been a genial and rather 
demonstrative man in every-day life, but in mat- 
ters that touched him deeply he disliked effusion. 
He could trust his wife to meet him in his own 
spirit. 

” All, James ? ” she queried. 


32 


Pratt Portraits, 


“Yes, all; I leave you to provide for the children 
according to your judgment. ’ ’ 

“It is not the usual way,” she said, with an 
anxious look. 

“ It would be, if all married people were like 
you and me.” 

She sat for some time, pondering his words. 
Then, “ I don’t know,” she said, “but it seems 
to me the old way is a very good one. If I had 
my — ” No, she could not say “widow’s third ” 
and maintain her composure. “Tell me,” she 
asked instead, ‘ ‘why you have acted so out of the 
common. I should like to know your reasons.” 

“ Well, Harriet, I look at it in this way. If I 
had lived out my natural life, there would n’t have 
been any division of property, and I can’t see 
why matters should n’t rest just as they are. It ’s 
partly on your account,” he went on, “ and still 
more on account of the children. You ’ve always 
been the best judge of what was good for them. 
Besides,” he added, after a few more words of 
explanation, “I’ve been in the habit of consid- 
ering that the money was as much yours as 
mine. ’ ’ 

Again he paused, and Harriet did not break 
the silence. Tater, when the early dusk was in 
the chamber, he said, “You and I have always 
been very united, Harriet.” 

He held out his hand to her. She took it in 
both hers. 

“ Dear girl ! ” he whispered. 


Harriet. 


33 


If she had been of a brooding nature she would 
have taken a mournful pleasure ever after in the 
pattering rain upon the tin roof. But she was 
indulgent neither to herself nor to others, and as 
she entered upon her widowhood she deliberately 
composed her mind to a calm acquiescence, which, 
like the shingled roof, gave forth the least pos- 
sible vibration to reminders of her sorrow. 

Her four sons and her two married daughters 
had all escaped the quicksands of youth, and were 
now well launched upon their several careers. 
She could not but take pride in her successful 
guidance, to which she justly attributed a share 
in this happy consummation. She had now but 
one child remaining with her in her spacious 
house, the “ little Lucy,” as she still was called, 
a good, obedient girl of eighteen, who had never 
given her mother a moment’s trouble. Hers was 
a figure that was rarely present to her mother’s 
mind during the anxious vigils which that re- 
sponsible woman kept. Hers was the name least 
often mentioned in her mother’s prayers ; for 
Harriet was, in her way, a religious woman. She 
was not as zealous a church member as one would 
have expected so active and capable a woman to 
be. Indeed, her own affairs might well absorb 
her energies. But her private devotions were 
none the less earnest. She did much of what her 
mother once called “thinking on her knees.” 
She was sometimes vaguely aware, after a longer 
maintenance of this attitude than was usual, that 


34 


Pratt Portraits. 


she had been silently talking things over rather 
than ofiering praise or supplication. Yet these 
prolonged statements of her case before a perfect 
Intelligence often brought her to a better under- 
standing of her own needs and her own best course 
than she could otherwise have reached. If her 
religious rites lacked piety, they were at least 
alive with conscience. And though all her chil- 
dren were remembered in these secret commu- 
nings, little I^ucy’s name was so unsuggestive of 
perplexities that it rarely received more than a 
passing mention. 

One brilliant winter’s day lyucy came down 
stairs arrayed in her squirrel tippet and muff, and 
wearing a little squirrel cap which sat jauntily on 
her bright brown hair. She had a fine color, and 
as she stopped at the sitting-room door to say 
that she was going over to see Grandma and 
Aunt Betsy, her mother was struck by her good 
looks. Indeed, so pleasant was the impression 
she received that Harriet, usually rather unsus- 
ceptible to merely ‘ ‘ skin-deep ’ ’ charms, got up 
from her chair, and still holding her sewing in 
her hand, stepped to the window to look out. 
IvUcy lingered for a moment at the top of the 
long flight of stone steps, down which she then 
passed with a pretty, swaying motion all her own. 
“ Little lyucy ” had a good height, and was in 
other respects more like her mother than any one 
had yet discovered. As she reached the drive- 
way below she turned abruptly, with a remark- 


Harriet. 


35 


ably bright smile, and bowed. Following the 
direction of her glance, her mother beheld a 
surprising apparition. At the side gate stood a 
young man wearing a corduroy jacket, and hold- 
ing in his hand a broader-brimmed hat than was 
then the fashion. His close cropped head thus 
exposed was a particularly shapely one, though 
that good point was lost upon his sharp-eyed 
observer. She meanwhile could see that he was 
speaking, and if it had not been for Fucy’s ex- 
pressive face she would have supposed that he 
was a stranger inquiring his way. What, then, 
was her astonishment when the smiling I^ucy 
went toward the side gate, greeted the still 
hatless individual with outstretched hand, and, 
turning, walked away with him in the opposite 
direction from “Grandma’s.” Harriet found 
herself supplied with food for reflection which 
occupied her the rest of the morning. 

Shortly before dinner the truant I^ucy appeared, 
looking flushed and happy, and unmindful of her 
mother’s stem countenance, proceeded to take off 
her gloves and loosen her tippet. Harriet, appar- 
ently intent upon her seam, sewed steadily on, 
waiting for the child to speak. 

“I didn’t go to Grandma’s after all,” said 
I^ucy, stepping to the front window and gazing 
in an absorbed way across the snow. 

Harriet stopped her sewing and looked up, 
expectant. 

“ Where did you go ? ” she asked. 


36 


Pratt Portraits, 


“I went to walk with Frank Enderby. We 
walked away out into the country and it was 
perfectly glorious. ’ ’ 

The girl had turned her glowing face toward 
her mother. 

“ Frank Knderby ! ” Harriet repeated, with in- 
creased displeasure. “Was that Italian-looking 
man, waiting for you at the gate, Frank Knder- 
by ? ’’ 

“Why, yes! Did you see him ? And didn’t 
you know him ? ’ ’ 

“ I never thought of such a thing. When did 
he come back ? ’ ’ 

“The 14th of last month,” said Kncy, with 
prompt exactitude. 

‘ ‘ And have you seen much of him ? ’ ’ 

“I ’ve seen him three times, not counting to- 
day.” 

“ Where have you been seeing him ? ” 

“The first time was at Annie Owen’s party. 
And then I saw him at church the next Sunday ; 
and yesterday he was calling at Annie’s when I 
was there. ’ ’ 

“Why did n’t you mention him to me ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Kucy, promptly taking 
refuge in a time-honored subterfuge. 

“You must at least know that you were behav- 
ing very improperly, when you took a long walk 
with a young man I ’m not acquainted with.” 

“ I know. Mother ; but I really did n’t mean to. 
He asked me if he might not walk with me to 


Harriet. 


37 


Grandma’s, by way of the common, and before we 
knew it we were going down Elm Street. You 
have no idea,” she continued, with renewed ani- 
mation, “how lovely the bare branches of the 
trees were against the sky. I had never noticed 
them so much myself, till Frank pointed them 
out to me. He said it was the best lesson in 
architecture a man could have, just to see how 
they met and divided. Do you know, mother, if 
I were a man, I should have been an architect 
myself.” 

“But you ’re not a man, Eucy ; and I don’t 
like the familiar way in which you are speaking 
of a perfect stranger. ” 

“ But, Mother, Frank is n’t a stranger. I ’ve 
known him all my life. He used to be ever so 
good to me when I was a little girl. I was always 
fond of Frank.” 

“That was when he was a boy, Eucy. You 
don’t know anything about him since he has 
grown up. We don’t any of us know how he 
has spent his time in all these years.” 

“ Oh ! but I know. He has been studying like 
a tiger ; he told me so himself. And now he is 
prepared to build theatres, and cathedrals, and — 
and houses, and make a great name for himself. ’ ’ 

“ He ’s got a pretty poor one to start with,” 
cried Harriet, with asperity. 

“Theatres and cathedrals,” she reflected, as 
Ency left the room, scarcely heeding her mother’s 
last remark ; ‘ ‘ theatres and cathedrals, indeed ! 


38 


Pratt Portraits, 


Just what I should have expected of him 1 I 
should n’t be at all surprised if he had turned 
Romanist. lyike as not he was hand in glove 
with all the play-actors in Europe. ’ ’ 

This highly colored view of the young man’s 
probable career was due partly to her profound 
disapproval of all his antecedents, and partly to 
his “ theatrical ” appearance. None of the Dun- 
bridge young men wore velvet jackets and 
broad-brimmed hats, nor did they stand bare- 
headed while they talked to a little chit like Eucy. 
Much as ever if they showed Old Eady Pratt her- 
self such deference. To say nothing of his hair, 
cropped as close as a jail-bird’s ! A horrible sus- 
picion crossed Harriet’s mind. Could he have 
been in jail? 

It was easy to believe anything, however 
bad, of a son of Frank Enderby. Had not the 
father drunk himself into the grave, lingering by 
the way, however, to drink up a decent fortune ? 
Had not his wife been an inefficient, slatternly 
woman, without backbone enough to keep her 
children out of rags ? What could one expect of 
the son of such people ? The other children had 
all died. It was more than likely that the inher- 
ited vices of the whole family had centred in 
this boy. And what was he, after all, but a 
charity boy, supported, ever since his parents’ 
death, by a rich stranger? A self-respecting 
young fellow would have gone into a store, and 
worked his way up. But that was not a fine 


Harriet, 


39 


enough career for Frank Enderby’s son. He 
must needs be ‘ ‘ educated ’ ’ for an architect, and 
fritter away years of his life in Europe, living the 
while on charity. An architect, indeed ! Nothing 
but a new fangled name for builder. Had not 
her own father built half the houses in Dunbridge ? 
Good enough houses for anybody to live in. The 
stately roof over her own head was a lasting 
monument to Anson Pratt’s skill and ability. 
Anson Pratt’s education had consisted in several 
years of hard work and privation, as a ’prentice 
boy. And here was this young upstart requiring 
all Europe to his teacher ! It was just the sort of 
thing that Harriet had no patience with, and she 
resolved then and there that this would-be builder 
of Catholic cathedrals should have no countenance 
from her family. 

But Harriet Spencer was reckoning without 
‘ ‘ little Eucy , ’ ’ as she might have known at first 
sight of Eucy’s preoccupied face at dinner, and 
“little Eucy,” up to this time, was practically an 
unknown factor even to her mother. 

One of Old Eady Pratt’s many wise sayings was, 
“There ’s nothin’ more likely to come to pass 
than what you ain’t lookin’ for. ’ ’ Holding which 
view, she should have been proof against sur- 
prise. 

Now it surely would have been difficult to 
imagine anything more in accordance with this 
philosophy than Eucy’s sudden elevation to incon- 
venient prominence in the family councils. And 


40 


Pratt Portraits. 


yet so inconsistent is even the wisest philosopher 
that when Harriet, a few weeks later, unfolded 
to her mother this new and growing perplexity, 
Old I^ady Pratt so far forgot herself as to lay down 
her knitting, take off her steel-bowed spectacles, 
and exclaim : “ Well, I never ! That beats me, 
I declare for ’t ! ” 

They were in Old kady Pratt’s sunny sitting- 
room, with the pretty green three-ply carpet on 
the floor, and the canary bird singing lustily 
above the plants in the window. Deaf Aunt 
Betsy was sitting by, nodding her head over her 
worsted-work, but she was no interruption to 
confidences. If she marked the agitation which 
caused her mother to take off her spectacles, she 
gave no sign. Betsy rarely knew the preliminary 
intricacies of the family affairs. She was thought 
to have had her share of the excitement if she 
received sufficient warning to enable her to get a 
sofa cushion worked in time for the wedding. 
So, when she observed her mother’s withered fin- 
gers tightly holding the bows of the shining spec- 
tacles — careful even in her excitement that the 
glasses should not get blurred — Betsy merely took 
a critical survey of her worsteds, and choosing a 
rich green, proceeded to fill in one of her “ heart 
patterns ” with it, rejoicing in the fine contrast it 
offered to its brilliant crimson neighbor. 

“And you feel sure, Harriet, that it ain’t jest a 
passing fancy ? ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid it ’s more ’n that. Mother. Tucy 
has n’t been the same girl since I took her to task 


Harriet. 


41 


about it. She used to be the evenest of all my 
children, and now she ’s either moping about 
from morning till night, or else she ’s as high-fly- 
ing as a long-tail kite. I thought first myself 
that she ’d see the sense of what I said to her, and 
I did n’t believe she ’d mind breakin’ with him 
after such a short acquaintance. That ’s why I 
made up my mind not to say anything to you 
about it. I knew just how you ’d feel about 

Frank Bnderby’s son, and how you ’d hate ” 

“ Fudge, Harriet ! ’T ain’t Frank Enderby I 
object to. Frank would ha’ come out straight 
enough if he ’d had any kind of a wife. It ’s 
Frank’s wife I never could abide — a weak, shift- 
less, wishy-washy woman ! It always did rile me 
jest to look at Sally Enderby ; and I must say 
’t would put me out more ’n most anything I can 
think of to have any of my own kith and kin on 
more ’n speakin’ terms with a child of hers.” 

“ But, Mother, Frank Enderby was a drunk- 
ard, ’ ’ Harriet remonstrated. 

“ I don’t care ’f he was. Any man with a 
spark of sperit would have gone to the dogs 
with such a wife as that. ’ ’ 

Harriet gave a little gasp of consternation. 

“ Well,” she said, when she had recovered 
herself sufiiciently to speak, ‘ ‘ I never thought I 
should live to hear you stand up for a drunk- 
ard ! ’ ’ 

The old lady gave her a shrewd look, and a 
gleam of humor came into the bright old eyes — 
Harriet did take things so seriously. 


42 


Pratt Portraits. 


“ You ’ll have to hear a good many surprising 
things before you ’re as old as I be,” she answer- 
ed, tranquilly resuming her spectacles and her 
knitting- work. 

The canary, as though startled by his old 
friend’s heresy, had fallen into a sudden silence. 
For a little while the click of the knitting-needles 
and Betsy’s soft woolly manipulations were the 
only sounds audible. 

Then Old Tady Pratt said : ‘ ‘ How would it do 
to send Tucy away on a visit? Maybe Jane 
could have her at her house for a spell. ’ ’ 

Jane was a daughter of the house of Pratt who 
had married somewhat ‘ ‘ beneath her. ’ ’ She lived 
in a smoky manufacturing town about ten miles 
distant from the genteel suburb where the Pratts 
‘ ‘ resided. ’ ’ Her husband was an optician in a 
small way, who had not made a success of life, 
and one would have supposed that there was not 
much in the nature of festivity to be enjoyed in 
Jane’s stuffy little house. But there was a theory 
in the Pratt family that a visit must necessarily 
be considered as an indulgence, and Harriet an- 
swered, with decision : 

“ No, Mother, I ’ve no idea of humorin’ her ; 
she don’t deserve it. And besides,” she added, 
“it isn’t likely ’t would do any good. You 
know it was just what you tried with Jane 
herself, and after all she married Henry Bennett 
before the year was out.” 

“We’ll let by-gones be by-gones,” said Old 


Harriet, 


43 


I<ady Pratt, rather sharply. She had been “ dis- 
app’inted ” in Jane’s marriage, but she did not 
propose to cry over spilt milk. 

lyittle lyucy, meanwhile, was having a hard 
time. Her mother’s disapproval was no light 
affliction, living, as she did, alone with her in 
that big house, with nobody else to speak to. 
Harriet had never been a demonstrative mother. 
She had a certain mannei under which she con- 
cealed her affection for her children as carefully 
as she concealed her abundant gray hair beneath 
a false front. Overt tenderness was not the 
fashion of the day, nor would it have accorded 
well with Harriet’s self-contained temperament. 
But though Lucy missed no accustomed warmth, 
she felt an unaccustomed chill, and it was hard 
to bear ; the more so, as she had gained little in 
the way of compensation. She ‘ ‘ liked ’ ’ Frank 
Bnderby, and she modestly “hoped” that he 
liked her. Even in her inmost thoughts Lucy 
never used a warmer word. Yes, she liked him, 
and he was very “ nice ” to her ; and how could 
she break with him as her mother wished her 
to do? She never thought of disobeying her 
mother ; that was quite out of the question. But, 
oh ! it was very hard. 

“ I might as well be a nun, and never go any- 
where,” she had said, in a melancholy little 
voice, when her mother had carefully laid down 
the law as to her conduct. 

A new look of displeasure had appeared in 


44 


Pratt Portraits, 


Harriet’s severe face, but she said nothing. She 
only made a mental note of the little speech as 
being “another foreign notion.” 

To-day, while her mother was “ gone to Grand- 
ma’s,” Tucy stood at a front window, gazing 
idly across the snow-covered lawn to the street, 
as young girls will gaze when the house seems 
empty, and the outside world is full of possi- 
bilities. She told herself she was hoping that 
Annie Owen might come to see her. 

Suddenly she beheld her pet kitten, a frisky 
little bunch of gray fur, scurrying across the 
snow toward the street, toward all the dangers 
that menace little kittens in this wicked world. 
Quick as thought, Lucy had snatched her Red 
Riding-hood cape, that was hanging on the hat- 
tree, and was running swiftly toward the ‘ ‘ ever- 
green corner” in pursuit. She found kitty 
examining with much interest the shady recesses 
beneath a dark hemlock, whose branches swept 
the groimd. Puss paid no heed to her mistress’ 
voice. She was stepping daintily about in the 
snow, lifting her soft little paws very high, and 
evincing great surprise when her waving tail 
brought a sudden shower of white powder down 
upon her from the low-hanging needles. 

“ Here, kitty, kitty ! Come, puss, come ! ” 
I/Ucy called, in persuasive tones. But pussy did 
not move an eyelid in response. 

Now Ivucy, whose very decided will was 
trained to submission in several legitimate direc- 


Harriet, 


45 


tions, had no mind to be thwarted by her own 
kitten. She drew her little red cape tightly 
about her, and diving in among the wet prickly 
branches, seized Miss Pussy Cat by the back of 
her neck, and pulled her out. “ Bad pussy,” she 
said, in a caressing tone, holding the warm little 
creature up against her cheek. The red cape and 
the dark hair were well powdered with snow, but 
Tucy did not move away directly. It felt warm 
and sheltered in there among the tall dark hem- 
locks, with a blue sky for a roof. She stood, 
lost in a sudden girlish reverie, softly stroking 
the kitten, which purred contentedly against her 
chin. 

‘ ‘ I wish you liked me half as well as you do 
that kitten, Tucy,” said a voice she knew. 

The sidewalk was close at hand, with only a 
low stone wall between. He stood holding the 
branches of the evergreens apart, and looking in 
upon her with a deprecating, beseeching face. It 
seemed like a part of her reverie, his coming had 
been so silent. She did not more than half 
believe it was really he. She looked at him 
incredulously for an instant, and then, still gaz- 
ing into his ardent eyes, she said : ” Oh, Frank, 

Ido, Ido!” 

Before he could speak or look an answer, she 
had turned and fled across the snow. 

But she could not flee so lightly the echo of her 
own daring words, and all that day and evening 
the impulse of flight was still strong upon her. 


46 


Pratt Portraits. 


At last, when bedtime came, lyucy said to her 
mother, ‘ ‘ I wish you would let me go to Aunt 
Jane’s for a visit.” 

Her eyes were fixed upon the carpet. Her 
mother thought they looked swollen and red. 

“Why do you want to go to Aunt Jane’s ? ” 

” I should like to get away from home.” 

“Why?” 

She lifted her eyes to her mother’s. Mother 
and daughter were very much alike at that 
moment. 

‘ ‘ Why ? ’ ’ Harriet repeated. 

“It isn’t easy to do as you wish me to at 
home, and ” 

“ And what? ” 

“ I should like to think it over quietly.” 

There was no defiance in the tone. It seemed 
to Harriet as though she were listening to her 
own voice. A peculiar sense of identity with the 
girl came over her, and she did not resent the 
speech. If Lucy really did resemble her in char- 
acter there was nothing to fear. Harriet, with 
all her determination, would never have rebelled 
against lawful authority. 

‘ ‘ Go to bed now, child, ’ ’ she said, not un- 
kindly ; “I will think about it.” 

When she left Lucy at her Aunt Jane’s the 
next day, with no more enlivening companionship 
than that of her dull old bachelor cousin, Anson 
Bennett, Harriet felt some misgivings. 

“ I don’t know ’s it ’s just the place for her,” 


Harriet 47 

she said to herself. ‘ ‘ If she wants to fret and 
pine, there ’s nothing at Jane’s to hinder.” 

For the moment she felt out of humor with 
herself, and mistrustful of her own wisdom. But 
this dissatisfaction soon gave place to the much 
less irksome feeling of annoyance with others. 
For during Lucy’s three weeks’ absence, her 
mother heard so much of young Frank Knderby 
that she got into a state of chronic displeasure 
against the world in general. He seemed to 
have bewitched the neighborhood. 

“Just like his father,” she would say to her- 
self, rocking so fiercely that she could not sew. 
“ Frank Bnderby always had a taking way with 
him. These good-for-nothing fellows are very 
apt to.” 

She felt more determined than ever in her 
opposition to him. But still his praises resounded. 
He was going to be a great architect. He had 
set up an office of his own in the city. He was 
already paying off the debt to his rich benefactor. 
It was rumored that he was to have the building 
of the new Episcopal church in Dunbridge, and 
that there were to be stained-glass windows in it, 
and two pulpits. As time went on Harriet began 
to feel that the whole community was in league 
against her, and she summoned all her will 
and diplomacy to avert the crisis which she 
feared. 

One day Old Lady Pratt was passing the after- 
noon with her daughter. The two women had 


48 


Pratt Portraits. 


established themselves comfortably over the iron 
register, whence issued a mild, well-regulated 
heat, very pleasing to a well-regulated mind. 
They talked amicably of this and that, while 
their knitting-needles clicked accompaniment, 
and Harriet had begun to feel more at one with 
herself and with the world at large than had 
been the case for some time past. Suddenly, as 
out of a clear sky, the old lady remarked : 

“ ’T ain’t often that you see a handsomer house 
than this, Harriet. ’ ’ 

Now the superiority of the Spencer house over 
others of the neighborhood was an established 
fact, and one that hardly called for comment at 
this late day. Harriet could not but wonder at 
the turn her mother’s thoughts had taken. She 
soon caught their drift, however. 

“I must say,” the latter continued, ‘‘that I 
was quite pleased to hear that young Enderby 
has been heard to say that ‘ Old Anson Pratt’s 
houses’ were a long sight ahead of the new 
‘ French-roof monstrosities.’ He called ’em mon- 
strosities^ Harriet,” she repeated, with a quiet 
chuckle. 

Harriet’s face suddenly hardened. ‘‘ I always 
thought the French-roof houses very pretty 
myself,” said she. 

Her mother glanced at her quickly. 

‘‘ I hope you ain’t so sot agin that boy as you 
was, Harriet. Far ’s I can make out, he seems 
to be a likely enough young fellow. ’ ’ 


Harriet, 


49 

“Likely enough to go to the bad,” Harriet 
retorted, sharply. 

“ He ain’t showed no signs of it yet,” the old 
lady rejoined, with answering spirit. “ He ’pears 
to be doin’ uncommon well. Dr. Baxter says 
he ’s makin’ his mark a’ ready.” 

“He has n’t stopped being the son of his 
father and mother, far ’s I know.” 

“ That ’s true enough, and I never could abide 
Sally Bnderby. But then, folks don’t always take 
after their fathers and mothers. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know who else they take after,” cried 
Harriet, with as near an approach to irritability 
as she ever permitted herself. ‘ ‘ Anyway, my 
mind ’s made up about Lucy. She sha’ n’t have 
anything to do with Frank Bnderby, not if I 
have to lock her up.'*" 

Old Lady Pratt eyed her daughter an instant. 
It was one of the rare occasions on which she was 
displeased with her. 

“ Speakin’ of takin’ after your parents,” she 
said, dryly, ‘ ‘ you ain’t one mite like your father.” 

The reproof was administered, and the culprit 
knew it. 

Opposition is a great stiffener. From that time 
forward Harriet Spencer’s determination had 
turned to obstinacy. 

When Lucy came home a few days later, her 
mother, after a searching glance at her pale face, 
gave her a rather frosty greeting. The girl wore 
a deep red rose in her dress. 


50 


Pratt Portraits. 


‘ ‘ Where did you get that rose ? ’ ’ Harriet 
asked presently, for hot-house flowers did not 
bloom at Jane’s. 

‘ ‘ Frank left it for me yesterday. ’ ’ 

“ Did he come ’way over to Westville on pur- 
pose to see you ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know.” 

” How did he find out you were at Jane’s ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Did n’t you ask him ? ” 

“I did n’t see him.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I thought it would be mean.” 

The inquisitor’s face relaxed. 

“ Did Jane see him ? ’ ’ 

“Yes ’m.” 

‘ ‘ What did she say to him ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know. She said she made it all right. ’ ’ 
“Jane had better mind her own business,” 
Harriet muttered. 

She was suspicious of her sister’s methods. 
Jane’s had never been a well-regulated mind. 
But the rose was suffered to remain where it was. 
Tucy had certainly behaved very well, exactly as 
Harriet herself would have done in her place. 

When she said good-night, Lucy still looked 
pale and tired ; but there was a ‘ ‘ grown-up, ’ ’ ex- 
perienced look in her face which did not escape 
her mother. 

Harriet was again struck with that curious 
sense of identity with her which had come over 


Harriet 


51 


“her once before. ‘ ‘ I guess it ’s that red rose, ’ ’ she 
said to herself, with a dreary feeling at her heart. 

Harriet’s devotions that evening were serious 
and absorbing. lyong after the house was quiet 
she still knelt beside her bed, her head resting in 
her hands. Yet meek as was the attitude, her 
face, when she lifted it, was harder than before ; 
the set look seemed fixed there. She put out her 
light and got into bed, but she could not compose 
herself to sleep. Hour after hour she lay with her 
eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. She 
had ceased to think ; she had ceased to resolve. 
She was trying, with a dull, persistent effort, not 
to see that red rose and the pale face above it, so 
like her own. The tall clock in the dining-room 
struck eleven and twelve. Then the minutes 
dragged so slowly that she hoped she had been 
asleep. But no ; the next stroke that echoed 
through the empty halls was one. At two o’clock 
something seemed to give way within her. She 
got up and struck a light, and having put on her 
heavy flannel double-gown and slippers, she 
stood for a moment irresolute. She glanced fur- 
tively at the old mahogany bureau between the 
front windows, and then, candle in hand, she 
passed out into the warm hall and down the 
stairs. As the old timbers creaked beneath her 
feet she paused, and cast a guilty look over her 
shoulder. “ If this is n’t perfectly ridiculous ! ” 
she said to herself, with strong disapproval. But 
she pursued her way still more cautiously. 


52 


Pratt Portraits, 


Arrived below she went about from room to 
room feeling the window fastenings. Yet she 
had secured them all herself, and Harriet Spencer 
was the last woman to doubt her own thorough- 
ness. The long parlor was dim and shadowy in 
the flickering candle-light, and her own figure 
seen in the pier-glass as she came down the room 
had a ghostly look. She turned her eyes away 
from the glass, and was glad to go out into the 
hall. 

In the kitchen she examined the bread, which 
had been set to rise. It was doing its duty 
bravely. The gray kitten, curled up in its little 
basket beside the stove, opened one eye upon the 
intruder, but it told no tales of hemlock boughs 
and Red Riding-hood capes, nor of a swift passage 
across the snow, held close against a wildly 
beating heart. 

A few moments later Harriet was standing at 
lyucy’s bedside. The girl was fast asleep, but the 
candle-light upon her face showed it flushed and 
tear-stained. In the mug upon the washstand 
the red rose drooped its head. Harriet bent down 
and breathed the delicate perfume, shading the 
candle lest the light should wake the sleeper. 
“I wish I could sleep like that,” she thought, 
sighing deeply. “ ’T is n’t much of a trouble 
that don’t keep you awake nights.” 

Yet the touch was very gentle with which 
she drew the warm coverlid closer about the 
child. 


Harriet, 


53 


Harriet was not herself to-night. For once in 
her life she had slipped from her own guidance. 
Something from without seemed to direct her 
movements ; or was it something deep, deep 
within ? As she closed her chamber door and 
put the candle upon the bureau, she made one 
last, half-hearted effort to break the spell which 
was upon her, but the effort was vain. A look of 
unwonted emotion transformed her handsome 
features, and, in sudden defiance of her own will, 
she pulled open a certain bureau drawer, and reach- 
ing far back under the cool linen, drew forth an 
old shell box. Her hands trembled a little as she 
lifted the lid. The subtle odor which clings 
about old letters floated up. She took them out 
and opened them, one after the other, straining 
her eyes to read them in the uncertain candle- 
light. Curiously enough, she did not think of 
putting on her glasses. The young eyes for 
which those lines were written had required no 
such aids. Each letter began : “ My beloved 
Harriet, ’ ’ and each one was signed : ‘ ‘ Your 
faithful James. ” Nor did they differ very greatly 
in their contents, these three or four yellow letters 
with the ink fading out. She read them slowly 
and with difficulty, a deep crimson coming into 
her cheeks, a strange softness into her eyes. 

Last of all, she took up a piece of silk tissue- 
paper lying folded together in the bottom of the 
box. How long it was since she had looked at 
it ! The creases were worn quite through. Lying 


54 


Pratt Portraits, 


within, — yes, there it was, a faded rose, no longer 
red. The dull brownish petals would have 
crumbled had her touch been less tender. For a 
long, long time she looked at it before laying it 
carefully back into the box ; then, with a sudden, 
passionate movement, she bowed her gray head 
upon the open letters, and wept — wept not like an 
old woman, but like a young girl in an abandon- 
ment of grief 

The candle burnt lower and lower, while Har- 
riet Spencer sat and wept ; the old clock struck 
three, and the faint yet pervasive odor of the 
yellowing paper crept slowly through the quiet 
chamber. It was gray dawn before the weary 
watcher sank into a troubled sleep. 

But that short sleep bridged the way back to 
real life. There was no trace of weariness in the 
brisk step with which Harriet went about the 
house the next morning. Her voice, too, was 
quite steady and matter-of-fact as she said to 
Tucy : ‘ ‘ How would you like to have me send 
and ask Frank Enderby to come in to supper 
to-night, seeing he was so polite as to go ’way 
over to Jane’s to wait on you. We are going to 
have waffles,” she tried to add, but there were 
close clinging arms about her neck and a soft cheek 
was pressed against her own for answer. Such 
behavior did not seem to Harriet quite decorous. 
She actually blushed, as she put the girl gently 
from her, saying : “There, there, Eucy ! Don’t 
take on about it, ’ ’ 


Harriet 


55 


Little Lucy did not mark the strangely tired 
look in her mother’s eyes. A happy wonder 
filled her heart, and shut out all besides. 

At the wedding, a year or two after that, some 
one remarked, ‘ ‘ How well-preserved Harriet 
Spencer is ! ” 

“Yes,” said the widow Perkins, with a self- 
conscious sigh ; ‘ ‘ that comes of keeping your 
feelings under.” 


III. 


A DOMESTIC CRISIS. 

A nson PRATT the younger was some- 
thing of an old Betty. His mother had 
made the discovery when he was still 
in petticoats, and she had tried by many 
ingenious devices to change his nature. He was 
only her second child, and she, being then young 
and inexperienced, had not yet learned that 
natures are not to be changed. Years, how- 
ever, and an instructive family of children taught 
her wisdom. She brought her son up in the 
paths of godliness and temperance ; she in- 
culcated in him the most sterling principles ; 
she taught him self-reliance and integrity. But 
an old Betty he remained to the end of the 
chapter. 

This was the more unfortunate since he had 
married a woman who would have seemed espe- 
cially designed by Providence to be a trial to an 
old Betty in any capacity, and pre-eminently so 
in the capacity of helpmeet. Yet there were com- 
pensations in his lot, which Anson Pratt would 
have been the last man to underrate. 

56 


A Domestic Crisis, 


57 


Emmeline Joy, though not possessed of beauty, 
was a woman of a good deal of personal fascina- 
tion. She had a piquant face and great vivacity. 
She had also her seasons of dreaminess — of re- 
moteness from every-day concerns. She passed for 
an accomplished woman in the good old simple 
days when she was young, before the world grew 
critical and fault-finding, when people were still 
easily pleased. She could sing, and play the 
piano — a queer little thin-voiced instrument, hav- 
ing the maker’s name done in mother-of-pearl, 
with floral ornamentations, on the lid. She could 
paint in water-colors, to the admiration of all be- 
holders. She had a delightful talent for acting, 
and she so far succeeded in overcoming the preju- 
dices of the Puritan community into which she 
had married, as to introduce private theatricals 
into staid old Dunbridge itself. She did none of 
these things well, judged by modern standards, 
unless it was perhaps the acting, in which she 
really excelled, by virtue of a remarkable power 
of mimicry and a spontaneity as refreshing as it 
was unusual. In music and painting she had no 
more technical facility than many of her contem- 
poraries. But there was a touch of genius in all 
that she did, which made it go straight to people’s 
hearts. Her painted flowers may have been a 
trifle out of drawing, but somehow she seemed to 
have got their fragrance into her pictures. The 
dear, old-fashioned tunes she played and sang 
were very primitive, but her touch made them 


S8 


Pratt Portraits. 


beautiful. And the same spark of genius that 
prevailed in what she did, also made her what 
she was, a woman of singular charm and lova- 
bleness. It was no wonder that Anson Pratt fell 
in love with her, in spite of her well known short- 
comings ; it was no wonder that he was quite as 
much in love with her as ever, after having suf- 
fered from those shortcomings for seven years. 

Emmeline’s manifold faults might all be sum- 
med up in a word — she was the very worst house- 
keeper imaginable. Anson Pratt, old Betty as he 
was, was forced to live in the midst of disorder 
and dust ; he had to see his two boys, bright lit- 
tle fellows with a capacity for getting into trouble, 
going about in rags and tatters. He himself had 
more than once experienced the humiliation of 
substituting a pin for a button ; he had sometimes 
walked the streets with the degrading conscious- 
ness of a hole in his socks. This would have 
been hard enough for any man to bear. For an 
old Betty it was wellnigh intolerable. Further- 
more, although he was not an epicure, Anson 
liked his meals well cooked and well served, and 
this reasonable wish was rarely gratified. Slat- 
ternly, inefficient servants succeeded one another 
in the kitchen, and unpalatable viands appeared 
as a result upon the table. Emmeline never 
seemed to notice what she ate. She had a good, 
healthy appetite and a preoccupied mind, and she 
could not understand any one’s being fastidious 
about his food. 


A Domestic Crisis. 


59 


IN) do Anson justice, it was some time before 
he complained. During the early part of his 
married life the muddiest coffee had the flavor of 
nectar when his wife’s hands poured it out ; the 
most unpalatable food of her serving seemed 
ambrosial. And when, after many months, he 
returned to a normal state of mind, and ventured 
upon a mild protest, Emmeline hardly took it in 
earnest. In fact, Emmeline was the only person 
who knew Anson Pratt intimately, who had not 
discovered that he was an old Betty. 

Mrs. Anson’s general inefficiency was the more 
aggravating, because it existed side by side with 
unusual capacity. When, at not very rare inter- 
vals, the maid-of-all-work took French leave, 
Emmeline invariably rose to the occasion. Then 
it was that Anson was well fed and well cared 
for. Appetizing dishes were served in the most 
appetizing manner. The touch of genius which 
Emmeline possessed, the quick perception and the 
light hand, made themselves felt in the homeliest 
tasks on which she really put her mind. The 
difficulty usually was that she did not put her 
mind on these things. She had too many bad 
habits, which interfered with that system so 
essential in the government of a household. She 
would read Scott or Byron until far into the 
night, and wake in the morning dazed and 
sleepy. Or again, she would rise with the sun 
and take her boys for a long walk, out into the 
dewy fields, to listen to the meadow thrush. 


6o 


Pratt Portraits, 


instead of busying herself with housewifely 
duties. She had been known to practise an 
entire morning on a new piano piece, to spend 
days in fashioning a velvet tunic for Robbie, or 
an embroidered skirt for little Aleck, while the 
boys, happily unconscious, shocked the neigh- 
borhood in their well ventilated pinafores and 
tattered hats. 

The two boys were very different, even at the 
age of five and three, respectively. Robbie, the 
elder, was the greater rogue of the two, the one 
who took the initiative in every scheme of mis- 
chief, leading the small boys of the neighborhood, 
as well as his matter-of-fact little brother, into 
scrapes innumerable. Yet when Emmeline 
played the piano, or sang an old ballad, the little 
figure that stole in on tiptoe and curled itself up 
in the corner of the sofa, that sat there motionless 
as long as the music lasted, was Robbie’s, and 
Robbie’s were the little arms that were most 
often fiimg about her neck in a burst of pas- 
sionate affection, or an equally passionate burst 
of penitence. It was the little Robbie who was 
improvident with his playthings, who emptied 
his entire store of pennies for the roughest tramp 
who came their way. It was little Robbie who 
gave his mother more trouble and more delight 
than a dozen little Alecks could have done. 

Aleck, on the other hand, was his father’s boy, 
the boy for whom Anson already prophesied 
success in life, and considering that the two were 


A Domestic Crisis. 


6i 


little Pratts, brought up in Dunbridge, this 
prophecy was likely enough to come true. The 
old New England community of half a century 
ago knew how to prize a level head and a well- 
governed mind. Genius and impetuosity were 
rather thrown away upon our forebears. A boy 
who drew pictures on his slate instead of doing 
his sums, who forgot his history dates in enthu- 
siasm over the history heroes, did not, in old 
times, arouse the tender and peculiar interest 
of his teachers. Nobody but his mother looked 
upon Robbie as anything more than a bright but 
troublesome little lad, with ears in crying need 
of being boxed. 

Meanwhile, Emmeline lived an abstracted sort 
of life, throwing herself ardently into whatever 
happened to appeal to her for the moment, ador- 
ing her husband and her little boys, and taking 
the worst possible care of them. She led her 
own life of the imagination and the emotions, 
curiously oblivious of the clouds that were gath- 
ering on the domestic horizon. And Anson, 
tired of protesting, tired of “putting up” with 
things, tired of living “out at elbows,” was 
gradually forming a great resolve. 

For several weeks past, Emmeline had been 
given over, heart and soul, to the preparations 
for a “parlor comedy,” to be performed in aid 
of a fund for buying a new church organ. She 
had not only to play the title-r61e, “ The Artless 
Celestina,” but she was stage-manager as well. 


62 


Pratt Portraits, 


This latter undertaking was the more arduous 
of the two, because of the uncompromising stiff- 
ness of the material she had to work with. The 
women of her little troupe, sensible wives and 
daughters of Dunbridge citizens, women who 
had all their lives been engaged in repressing 
their more lively emotions, in refraining from 
indecorous exhibitions of feeling, found it difficult 
to teach their voices the art of trembling, their 
features the trick of looking moved in an imagi- 
nary situation. The estimable youth who had 
assumed the r61e of insinuating villain could 
scarcely be induced not to state his designs and 
convey the subtle cunning of his machinations in 
a voice with which he might have taken com- 
mand of an army. As to Celestina’s lover, 
though his declaration of undying affection 
smacked strongly of the counting-house, his arms 
and legs would have done credit to a Dutch 
windmill. But Emmeline never for a moment 
lost heart. She drilled her unpromising com- 
pany with tact and spirit, and she threw into her 
own r61e a naturalness and fire which held its 
own against all odds. The play, according to 
Dunbridge standards, turned out a success, and 
the ‘ ‘ leading lady ’ ’ went home with her husband 
after the performance, exhausted but triumphant. 

But great as had been Emmeline’s perplexities, 
this period of excitement and anxiety had been far 
more severe a strain upon Anson’s nerves than 
upon hers. His house had been more at sixes 


A Domestic Crisis. 


63 


and sevens than ever, his children had taken on 
more than ever the semblance of street-ragamuf- 
fins, and as for his food, he was left to the mercy 
of the most inefiicient servant who had yet dis- 
pensed indigestion to this long-suffering household. 

Yet Anson possessed himself in patience all 
through the time of rehearsals. He was even 
magnanimous enough to take a pride in his wife’s 
success. He was a little bewildered, indeed, by 
the ease and naturalness with which she played 
the part of designing coquette, but her eagerness, 
when she turned to her rightful lord for approval, 
once the play being ended, proved entirely re- 
assuring. 

The next day Anson laid before her his list of 
grievances, and waited in the lingering hope of 
better things. Alas ! It was a vain hope. Em- 
meline took his fault-finding in the sweetest 
spirit, promised to ‘ ‘ see to things, ’ ’ and to ‘ ‘ speak 
to ’ ’ the servant, and immediately became absorbed 
in the manufacture of a pair of slippers for her 
husband’s birthday, and forgot all about every- 
thing else. 

Anson felt deeply injured, as he certainly had 
a right to do. He thought bitterly of his own 
hardworking life, of how he never looked to the 
right nor to the left when in the path of duty, of 
the discomforts and vexations he had endured for 
all these years, and his heart became hard within 
him. 

On the evening of the third day after the the- 


64 


Pratt Portraits, 


atricals he went down cellar to saw wood, a favor- 
ite diversion of his. He liked the damp, cold, 
clean cellar, and the sense of having his own way 
in his own province ; he liked to feel his hand 
close firmly upon the smooth handle of the saw, he 
enjoyed the tingling sensation that went through 
the sole of his foot, pressed hard against the log, 
as the saw ground its way through the resisting 
fibres of the wood. On a cold March evening 
like this the exercise was particularly agreeable. 

To-night, however, his mind was laboring 
harder than his muscles. Yes, he thought to 
himself, — sawing wood is rough work, and it 
makes a grating sound. But some difficulties 
have to be sawed through in just that hard, un- 
compromising way. As he tossed one stick after 
another onto the pile, he first held it in the small 
circle of light his lantern cast, and admired the 
smooth, even cut which the ugly tool had made. 
And as he worked, and as he pondered, he ex- 
perienced a strong desire to saw through the diffi- 
culties of his daily life, no matter how rude and 
jarring the process might be. 

He had a right to have a comfortable home, if 
ever a man had. It was a right that he fairly 
earned, every day of his life. Emmeline was very 
sweet, and he loved her very much, but, good 
heavens ! a man could not live on sweetness and 
love ! He kept sawing one log after another to 
the required length, and when he had had enough 
of it, he drew himself up, and took a long breath. 


A Domestic Crisis. 65 

“ I ’ll do it ! ” he said to himself ; “ I swear I ’ll 
do it.” 

“ It ’ll cost a good deal,” he continued, as he 
put on his coat and hung up his saw on its own 
special peg, “but I can make it up somehow.” 

He went up stairs into the kitchen, where he 
hungup his lantern, and washed his hands at the 
sink. Then, as he passed on into the front of the 
house, he heard Emmeline’s voice, singing a 
lullaby in the nursery. He paused and listened. 
Emmeline’s singing always appealed to him. 
To-night her voice was wonderfully sweet, and he 
liked the words : 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

Emmeline made her own tunes when she sang 
to the children. The melody was low and croon- 
ing, and in the middle of it Anson could hear 
little Robbie’s voice, saying sleepily : “ Kiss me 
again. Mamma.” 

Anson leaned against the balustrade. 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

Was father a nobleman, to care so much about 
sordid things ? Was not Emmeline, after all, a 
kind of queen, not made for common cares ? 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

She had left out the rest of the verse now, and 
was merely murmuring that one line. For the 
hundredth time Anson Pratt’s heart softened, and 
5 


66 


Pratt Portraits, 


his annoyances seemed petty and unreal. He 
took his hand oflf the railing, meaning to go up to 
the nursery, when his eye fell upon a long streak 
of dust, that ran over his hand, his wristband, and 
his coat-sleeve. He shuddered at the sight of it 
as only an old Betty could do, and striding into 
the sitting-room he slammed the door behind him. 

The rude sound startled Emmeline out of her 
reverie, and little Aleck waked up crying. 

The next evening, after the children were put 
to bed, Emmeline came down to the sitting- 
room, looking very pretty and housewifely in a 
black silk apron, with a white muslin necker- 
chief crossed over her breast. She took a good 
deal of pride in looking matronly, and longed for 
the time when Anson would let her wear a cap. 
Her face fell as she saw that her husband was 
reading his paper by the aid of a very smoky 
lamp. 

“Oh, Anson,” she cried, “I ’m so sorry! I 
shall have to get you another lamp.” 

“ Can’t the girl fill this one ? ” he asked. 

Anson had long since g^ven up trying to keep 
run of the “girls’ ” names. 

“I ’m afraid there is n’t any oil,” she said, 
regretfully ; “ but never mind, the other lamp will 
do to talk by.” 

“Yes, any light will do to talk by.” When 
the change had been made, Emmeline came and 
sat down beside him, with her little confiding air, 
which had disarmed him more than once when he 


A Domestic Crisis, 67 

was on the verge of rebellion. But this time his 
heart was steeled. 

Anson Pratt was a fine-looking man, an advan- 
tage of which he himself made very little account. 
If he had been told that he had more actual 
beauty than his wife, he would have been much 
offended. It was nevertheless a fact, and one 
which Emmeline knew and gloried in. To-night 
as she glanced at his handsome face in the half- 
light cast by the second-best lamp, a sudden mis- 
giving seized her. The face was not at its best. 
The finely marked brows were contracted, the 
eyes looked nearer together than was quite 
becoming, the lips were so tightly compressed as 
to seem thinner than usual. Decidedly, Anson 
was out of sorts. Oh ! what was it this time ? 
Was it buttons ? Or was it fat in the gravy ? 
or ” 

‘ ‘ Emmeline, ’ ’ Anson said, in a slightly con- 
strained voice, ‘ ‘ I have been making up my mind 
about something for a long time, and now my 
mind is made up. ’ ’ 

This was evidently a more serious matter than 
buttons or gravy, and Emmeline’s courage re- 
vived, as it had a way of doing in the face of 
a real trouble. 

“What is it, Anson? Do you think you ’ll 
have to take a partner after all?” 

“Something like it,” he answered, avoiding 
her eyes as he spoke. “I ’ve engaged a house- 
keeper. ’ ’ 


68 


Pratt Portraits, 


‘‘A what?” 

‘ ‘ A housekeeper. ’ ’ 

“ Engaged a housekeeper? Why, Anson, 
what do you mean ! ’ ’ 

“I mean exactly what I say. I ’ve engaged 
the woman Sister Harriet was telling us about. 
She ’s coming to-morrow afternoon.” 

‘ ‘ Coming here, to keep house for you ? To 
take my place ? ’ ’ 

“She ’s coming here to keep this house.” 
Emmeline had grown very white. 

“Why have you taken such a step without 
consulting me ? ” 

“Because I was sure you would object, and I 
did n’t want any discussion.” 

“But, Anson, what do you want of a house- 
keeper? ” 

‘ ‘ What most folks want of a housekeeper. To 
have the house kept.” Anson was desperately 
afraid that his wife would persuade him to aban- 
don his plan, and before she could interpose he 
had armed himself from top to toe in his 
grievances. 

“ I have borne a great deal, Emmeline. I ’ve 
lived for seven years without any of the comforts 
of a home. There is n’t a man in Dunbridge who 
has had so much to put up with as I. And I ’ve 
made up my mind that I ’m not going to stand it 
another day. I ’m going to try for once what it 
is like to have a clean house and whole clothes 
and something fit to eat. ’ ’ 


A Domestic Crisis. 


69 


“You ’ve lived for seven years without the 
comforts of a home ? Do you mean that, Anson ? ’ ' 

“I mean just that.” 

‘ ‘ And there is n’t a man in Dunbridge who has 
been so badly off as you ? ’ ’ 

“ In some respects, no ! There is n’t a man in 
Dunbridge that is as badly off as I.” 

Emmeline got up from her chair and walked 
about the room with swift, nervous movements. 
Anson kept his seat and kept his determination. 

At last Emmeline came back and knelt down 
beside his chair. 

There were very few women of her day and 
generation who could have knelt down in just 
that supplicating way, and very few voices that 
could have sounded so beseeching as did hers. 

“Anson, won’t you please give me one more 
trial? Won’t you please tell that woman not to 
come ? ’ ’ 

“ No, I won^t,” he answered stolidly. “I ’ve 
made up my mind to have a little comfort, and 
I ’ve engaged Mrs. Beach for a month, beginning 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“ But, Anson, for my sake, for both our sakes, 
tell her not to come. Oh, Anson ! I cannot bear 
it ! I am sure I cannot bear it — please — please 
don’t let her come.” 

Her tone of passionate entreaty was too intense 
to move him. It seemed to him like play acting. 

“ I tell you, Emmeline,” he said, getting up 
and leaving her kneeling there beside his chair. 


70 


Pratt Portraits, 


“ the thing is done, and I ’m not going to undo 
it. It ’s no more than my right to have at least a 
month’s comfort, and I ’m going to have it.” 

He felt that in saying ‘ ‘ at least a month, ’ ’ he 
had made a great concession. 

As he turned away Kmmeline got up from her 
knees and steadied herself against the back of the 
chair. The blood had rushed back into her white 
cheeks, and her eyes had an unnatural light in 
them. But she spoke with a great deal of self- 
command. 

‘ ‘ Anson, ’ ’ she said, and he turned and looked 
at her. “Anson, you will have to choose be- 
tween us — I will not stay with you one hour after 
that woman comes into the house. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And where shall you go ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I suppose to mother’s. But 
that is of no consequence. As long as I cannot be 
your housekeeper, you will have to choose. You 
can have your new housekeeper, or you can have 
me, but you can’t have both. Oh, Anson, please 
don’t drive me out of the house like this,” she 
cried, coming toward him and putting both hands 
on his arm. 

He remembered the streak of dust that had 
been there the evening before. 

“Nonsense, Emmeline,” he said, impatiently, 
shaking off her hands. “ Don’t be so theatrical. 
I ’ve engaged the woman, and she ’s coming, and 
that ’s all there is about it. If you ’ve a mind to 
fly into a passion, I can’t help it. Only one thing 


A Domestic Crisis, 


71 


I must insist upon ! ” he added, sharply. “ That 
you stay in your own house where you belong. ’ ’ 

“ Nevertheless I shall go.” 

There was a tone of quiet self-assertion in her 
voice that Anson had never heard before, and he 
suddenly felt himself in a white heat of anger. 

‘ ‘ I forbid you to leave the house ! ” he cried. 
His masterful tone was also new to her, and for 
a moment husband and wife looked at each other, 
estranged and bewildered, as though all their old 
moorings had been swept away. 

Then Emmeline left him and went slowly up 
stairs, with despair in her heart. If he could 
speak to her like that everything was at an end. 
Oh ! Where should she turn, what should she do ? 

The nursery-door stood open at the head of the 
stairs, and instinctively she stayed her foot. The 
children ! Neither of them had thought of the 
children. She went in and closed the door be- 
hind her and then she knelt down by the bed and 
burst into tears. 

Tears have been a good deal maligned, but 
they are a great comfort. While Emmeline wept 
by the side of her sleeping boys she got her bal- 
ance. It was impossible that she should do full 
justice to Anson’s cause of complaint, that she 
should quite appreciate the enormity of her own 
transgressions. Indeed, her mind did not busy 
itself with either the one or the other. She simply 
struggled to adjust herself to the situation as it 
existed. After all everything was not over. 


72 


Pratt Portraits. 


Here, at least, in those sturdy little fellows that 
needed her and needed their father too, was some- 
thing real and abiding, something of a good deal 
more importance than anybody’s injured sensibili- 
ties. No, all was not over. There was nothing to 
be tragical about. She was wounded, humiliated. 
It was very grievous. But they would get the 
better of it yet. Her soul revolted at the thought 
of the woman who was coming to usurp her 
place, her soul revolted at the tone in which her 
husband had spoken to her. But all would yet 
be well. She was sure that all would yet be well. 
She kissed the boys very tenderly, and then she 
slipped into her own room, where she went into 
consultation with herself. 

Anson, meanwhile, resumed his seat and tried 
hard not to feel like a brute. Men are at a great 
disadvantage in their quarrels with women. The 
consciousness of a heavy hand, so to speak, dis- 
composes them. Anson knew very well that in his 
desperate effort not to soften, he had hardened. 
He knew that his tone had been masterful, his 
behavior unchivalrous. Somehow that interview 
had given him a new and far from agreeable im- 
pression of himself. He found himself wondering 
whether, if he had married a less captivating and 
irresistible woman than Kmmeline, he might not 
have turned out to be a domestic tyrant. He had 
always despised domestic tyrants. 

Impatiently he sought refuge in the evening 
paper. But, alas ! the print was bad, and the 


A Domestic Crisis, 


73 

second-best lamp was worse, and this small 
annoyance restored his wavering resolution. 

In the broad light of day matters did not seem 
quite so serious, and even when Emmeline told 
him at breakfast that she was really going to pay 
a visit to her mother, it seemed a sufficiently 
natural thing to do, and he was relieved to find 
that it was not worth while to oppose her. Mrs. 
Joy lived in the city, and her house was easily ac- 
cessible. He was only surprised that Emmeline 
did not propose taking the children with her, but 
he reflected that her mother was in delicate health 
and might not like two noisy boys about the 
house. 

The ‘ ‘ high tragedy ’ ’ which had annoyed him 
in Emmeline the evening before had entirely 
disappeared. Indeed, there was an airy light- 
ness in her manner, when she bade him good-bye, 
which was mortifying to him. He left the house 
with rather a heavy, inelastic step, and being but 
a mortal man, he did not feel her eyes upon him, 
as she gazed, half-blinded by tears, through the 
slats of the blinds, after his retreating figure. 

And now began the era of peace and order for 
which Anson Pratt had longed. His new house- 
keeper proved to be a most efficient woman. She 
promptly got rid of the kitchen ‘ ‘ baggage, ’ ’ as 
she termed the late incumbent, and took in her 
place a wild, red-headed Irish girl, freckled to the 
very tip of her nose, whose astonishing brogue 
and slam-bang manners made her seem anything 


74 


Pratt Portraits. 


but promising. Under Mrs. Beach’s skilful 
generalship, however, she toned down somewhat, 
and proved to be an admirable servant. Up early 
in the morning, always busy, cheery, and good- 
tempered, serving delicious meals, ready to lend a 
hand with the children, thoughtful, and attentive 
to her master. She had a way of helping Anson 
off with his great-coat, and having his slippers 
in readiness for him, which made him feel like a 
pampered aristocrat. Nor was he ungrateful. 

“ Katie,” he said to her one evening, “you ’re 
a very good girl. I hope you are contented and 
happy with us. ’ ’ 

“Indade, Sorr, but I ami" she declared 
heartily. 

“ Mrs. Pratt will be pleased to find you here 
when she comes back. ’ ’ 

Anson always made a point of referring to his 
wife in the presence of Mrs. Beach and Katie, who 
were quite ready to regard her with respect and 
admiration. Katie had a queer little way of look- 
ing askance when she had anything to say. With 
her eyes fixed upon Anson’s coat-sleeve she 
asked : 

“ An’ is it long that she ’ll be bidin’ awa’ ? ” 

“ No, she will come home before long.” Then 
Katie, blushing violently under her freckles, 
blurted out : “ Beggin’ your pardon, Sorr. It ’s 
mesilf as was wonderin’ how she could lave your 
honor and the two swate little boys, at all, at 
all ! ” 


A Domestic Crisis, 


75 


“ Your mistress is obliged to be away,” Anson 
replied, with a dignity which was intentionally 
chilling to the impulsive Katie. She dropped an 
apologetic courtesy and retired precipitately to 
her own domain. 

Now Anson Pratt, who had got what he thought 
he most wanted, namely, an orderly house and a 
good table, — Anson Pratt, whose buttons were 
now always sewed on, whose wristbands were 
never frayed, was, of course, far from happy. 
Creature comforts are all very well, but they are 
not in themselves satisfying. lyittle Robbie quite 
expressed his father’s feelings, when, after the 
first day of the new regime, Anson took him 
on his knee and asked him how he liked Mrs. 
Beach. 

‘ ‘ Pretty well, ’ ’ said Robbie, ‘ ‘ But I like mam- 
ma better. ’ ’ 

Anson too found Mrs. Beach and her house- 
keeping “pretty well,” in their way, but with 
little Robbie he “liked mamma better.” 

The lamp was always filled now, and he could 
read his evening paper in comfort. But it was 
remarkable how often the paper had to wait while 
he pored over a certain note which he had received 
the day after Kmmeline’s departure, — a particular- 
ly foolish thing to do, since he knew the note by 
heart, and could have read it just as well by the 
light of the second-best lamp, or without any 
light at all, for the matter of that. 

The note had said : 


76 


Pratt Portraits, 


‘ ‘ Dear Anson — 

“ Mother has asked me to go on a little journey 
with her, and as you are so well taken care of I 
thought it was a good time to go. I write this so 
that you need not come way up to mother’s for 
nothing. I hope you like your new housekeeper 
and that you are enjoying all ‘ the comforts of a 
home. ’ 

“ Your affectionate wife, 

‘ ‘ Emmeline. ’ ’ 

Then there was a short postscript written in a 
less careful hand : 

“Don’t forget me, Anson — and kiss the boys 
for me.'” 

Anson did not forget her, though he tried his 
best to take her desertion philosophically. The 
evening after Emmeline went away, for instance, 
he had resort to his favorite occupation of sawing 
wood, and he sawed himself, so to speak, into a 
very sensible frame of mind. But when he came 
upstairs and into the front of the house, he 
stopped mechanically and listened. He could 
almost hear Emmeline’s voice singing : 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

Almost, but not quite. As he stood with his 
hand on the stair railing, his heart sank at the 
stillness of the house, and then, lifting his hand, 
he involuntarily looked to see if there was any 
mark on it. Singularly enough he experienced 


A Domestic Crisis, 


77 


a shock of disappointment. No son or daughter 
of Old lyady Pratt was ever morbidly sentimental. 
Yet so much did Anson miss the voice he had 
listened for, that there would have been consola- 
tion, he thought, in the old familiar dirt streak. 
But alas ! nothing was old and familiar. Every- 
thing was different. 

And even the creature comforts seemed likely 
to forsake him, for scarcely had Mrs. Beach been 
in the house a week, when she was suddenly 
called away by the illness of her daughter. 

Anson’s heart gave a great bound at the news. 
Emmeline must come home now. She must 
come home at once. He would send for her. 
But where ? How ? She had given him no ad- 
dress. She had not written to him again. At 
first he thought he would go to Mrs. Joy’s house 
and find out her whereabouts. But then his pride 
arose and he said to himself : ‘ ‘ She has chosen 
to leave me in the lurch. She shall choose her 
own time for coming back.” 

Happily Katie proved quite equal to the 
emergency. She was housekeeper and servant 
in one. She seemed able to look after every- 
thing. The house, the kitchen, the master, and 
the boys. 

One evening, soon after Mrs. Beach’s depart- 
ure, Anson went into the sitting-room where he 
found Katie lighting the lamp. In a glass on the 
table were the first crocuses of the season. The 
sight of them touched him. Emmeline had 


78 


Pratt Portraits. 


always taken pride in finding the first crocuses as 
a surprise for him. 

He stepped up and looked at them, and at the 
same time the boys came running in, looking 
clean and whole as they usually did nowadays. 
He took little Aleck on his knee, and then he 
said, as Katie finished her task : 

“ Did you put those flowers there, Katie ? ” 

“ Yes, Sorr.” 

She stood, with her apron in her mouth, look- 
ing shy and awkward. “ I was thinkin’ , Sorr, as 
how it seemed so lonesome-like after the childers 
was put to bed, and I thought as how the shmall 
flowers might be company for ye’z.” 

“Thank you, Katie, they are very pretty,” 
said Anson. 

“They ’s my mamma’s flowers,” little Robbie 
declared, looking doubtfully at the smiling Katie. 
Katie had a grotesque smile. Her lips went down 
and in at the comers in a manner that was not 
prepossessing. She fixed her eyes, with an in- 
consequent expression on the key-board of the 
piano, and said: “ Beggin’ your pardon, Sorr, 
and does the mistress like the flowers ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, Katie. Your mistress likes flowers,” 
Anson replied, with a queer feeling in his throat. 

“ My mamma ’s more beautifuller than those 
flowers,” Robbie asserted stoutly. 

Meanwhile little Aleck, who had been rifling 
his father’s pockets, had pulled out a small folded 
piece of paper. It was before the day of envel- 


A Domestic Crisis, 


79 


opes, and as it fell from the child’s hand the 
paper flew open. Katie picked it up and handed 
it to her master, who folded it carefully, and put 
it back in his pocket, chiding Aleck rather 
sharply. 

If Katie had been an observing young woman 
she would have noticed that the bit of paper was 
a note, much worn, and presumably very old. 
And yet if she had been quick enough to read 
the date she would have seen that it was written 
only ten days ago. But wild Irish girls have not 
always quick perceptions, and it is hardly to be 
supposed that Katie made any observations on 
the subject. 

Whatever Katie lacked in perception, however, 
she made up in feeling. She evidently took her 
master’s lonely and deserted state very much to 
heart. As she bustled about the dining-room, 
setting the table for supper, she stopped more than 
once to dry her eyes on the comer of her apron. 
Any one observing Katie in her unguarded mo- 
ments would have discovered that she was one of 
those unfortunates who are born to do themselves 
injustice while lavishing devotion upon others. 
Such an observer would have learned that it was 
her shyness which distorted her features and 
made her voice harsh. When she was by herself 
her freckled face lost much of the gawky look 
which it took on in the presence of her betters. 
Her lower jaw did not drop so heavily, her eyes 
did not look so dull. Her movements, too, were 


8o 


Pratt Portraits, 


less awkward and jerky as she laid the table in 
unembarrassed solitude. And when, an hour 
after supper, she went up to give the boys their 
baths and put them to bed, there was a tender 
motherliness about her which was really very 
winning. 

lyittle Robbie seemed full of thoughts of his 
mother that evening. He chattered on about her 
to the sympathetic Katie as she polished off his 
small pink ears, and even when the ablutions 
were over his glowing eulogy still continued. 

“She ’s just the most beautifullest lady you 
ever saw,” he declared, as Katie tucked him up 
in bed beside his little brother. “You ’ll just 
love her so ! She ’s got such pretty red cheeks, 
and such shiny black hair. Katie, don’t you 
wish you was pretty ? And she plays the planner, 
and she sings, Katie — oh ! she sings such pretty 
songs when she puts us to bed. Can’t you sing, 
Katie ? Can’t you sing just one little song ? ’ ’ 

“ Ach ! go way wid ye’z ! ” cried Katie, “ and 
would ye be afther makin’ a lady o’ the likes o’ 
me? ” 

She knelt down beside the bed, and tucked the 
little fellow in, and then she watched him as he 
fell asleep. 

By and by, when he was breathing regularly, 
the warm flush coming on his cheeks, the lips 
opening just a trifle, she stooped and kissed him. 
She laid her arm across him till her hand touched 
his little brother, and then she began to croon 


A Domestic Crisis, 


8i 


the sweetest song, very, very softly, and strangely 
enough, the words were the old familiar ones : 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

Robbie stirred in his sleep, and murmured, 
“Mamma,” and she slipped her arm under his 
head, and he nestled down against her, and she 
went on singing, singing : 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen,” 

— not quite so softly now. 

Anson, sitting down-stairs by himself, with the 
crocuses beside him, heard the song, and a sud- 
den, superstitious thrill went through him. He 
dropped his paper, and stole to the foot of the 
stairs, and the sweet voice, crooning more softly 
again, just reached his ear. 

“ Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen.” 

“Emmeline!” he cried, and bounded up the 
stairs, two steps at a time. There was no light 
in the nursery, where he could only discern a 
shadowy figure kneeling by the bed. “Emme- 
line I ” he whispered, ‘ ‘ Emmeline I ’ ’ 

“ Sh, Anson 1 Don’t wake the children.” 

He leaned down and tried to lift her up, but, 
as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he 
could see little Robbie’s head against her breast. 

‘ ‘ Emmeline I Emmeline I When did you come 
home ? ’ ’ 

“I ’ve been here all the time,” she said, with 
6 


82 


Pratt Portraits, 


a little sob, gently laying Robbie’s head upon 
the pillow. “You stupid, stupid Anson! You 
never knew me I ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Emmeline I What do you mean ? ’ ’ 

“Sure an’ I ’m thinkin’ the misthress has got 
home, Sorr I ’ ’ 

It was the voice of the faithful Katie, whom he 
was apparently holding in his arms. 

“ And did you really think,’’ asked Emmeline, 
an hour later, when they sat together by the 
light of the best lamp, — “And did you really 
think that I could leave you and the children for 
ten whole days, and not know how you were 
getting along ? ’ ’ 

“No, I could n’t have thought so,’’ said 
Anson, with conviction. “I could n’t possibly 
have thought that. I must have known all the 
time that you were Katie, only I did n’t quite 
take it in.’’ 

As Anson looked at his wife’s face, where a 
few of the more obdurate freckles still clung, and 
into the eyes which looked so natural and so dear, 
in spite of the hint of red which still lingered in 
the eyebrows, he thought that he had never been 
Sowell content in all his life— no, not even seven 
years ago, when his wife seemed to him to be a 
perfectly faultless being. But he only said : 

“Go and play me something, Emmeline. I 
have n’t heard the piano for so long.’’ 


A Domestic Crisis, 


83 


And as the sweet familiar chords answered to 
the old magic of her touch, he got up and took 
the crocuses over to the piano, and set them 
down where she could see them, and she played 
on and on, nearly all the evening. 

That was a very pleasant evening, and it 
taught them more than all their troubles had 
done. Things never came to such a very bad 
pass again. When, occasionally, this or that 
went wrong in the household, and the old Betty 
in Anson rebelled, Emmeline would strengthen 
her own resolution, and Anson’s patience too, by 
crooning softly, as though to herself, a certain 
old nursery rhyme, beginning : 


“Father ’s a nobleman, mother ’s a queen. 


IV. 


BEN’S WIFE. 

B EN’S wife was a Hazeldean — a fact which 
that estimable woman rarely lost sight 
of. It was, perhaps, not to be expected 
that her husband and her husband’s fam- 
ily should give quite due weight to the circum- 
stance, but they were not allowed to forget it. At 
first, to be sure, the Pratts, who were themselves 
unpretentious sort of people, were not without 
some pride in the connection ; and even Old Lady 
Pratt herself did not object to letting fall the re- 
mark that “ Ben’s wife was a Hazeldean.” An 
advantage like this, however, is one that should 
be sparingly used by its possessor ; and it must 
be confessed that Mrs. Ben was inclined to push 
it more than was quite well-judged, and that, as 
time went on, the Pratts allowed a suspicion of 
satire to creep into the statement which had been 
made at first in perfect good faith. 

Yet there was much to be said in defence of 
Mrs. Ben. Perhaps no one who has not had the 
experience can justly estimate the sacrifice which 
the woman makes who relinquishes a name of 
84 


Pratt Portraits, 


85 


three syllables, and one of such romantic and 
poetic associations as Hazeldean (if, indeed, there 
be such another) for a curt, unembellished mono- 
syllable like Pratt. 

Moreover, this foible, together with certain 
trifling vanities and affectations engendered by it, 
was almost the only flaw in an honest and kindly, 
if somewhat high-strung nature. “ Ben’s wife ” 
was worthy of that title and proud of it too. 
She knew in her heart that she would rather have 
been Ben’s wife than a duchess. Yet being 
securely Ben’s wife for all time, and, as she 
devoutly believed, for all eternity, she still en- 
joyed the retrospective glory of having been a 
Hazeldean. 

Her first son was unquestioningly named Ben- 
jamin ; but great was her rejoicing when the 
third child turned out to be a boy, and she could 
call him Hazeldean — Hazeldean Pratt ! She 
felt as though she had never appreciated her own 
name until this happy combination proved what a 
lustre it could throw upon a single commonplace 
syllable. The boy was called Hazeldean from 
his cradle, and no corruption of the name was 
ever tolerated in the family. The two elder 
children, when they first ventured to call their 
little brother “Hazie, for short,” were promptly 
suppressed, and by the time the younger ones 
came to speech, the three syllables were so firmly 
established in their rights that they seemed one 
and indivisible. 


86 


Ben s Wife, 


Ben’s wife was fond of dress, but Heaven for- 
bid that that be accounted a flaw ! She was a 
woman of excellent taste, thanks to which her 
house and her person were always as pleasant to 
look upon as the fashions of the day would per- 
mit. When the large hoops came into vogue, 
she was forced into them, as it were, for she would 
have been unpleasantly conspicuous without 
them. Yet she was never betrayed into extremes, 
and would have nothing to do with the ‘ ‘ floating 
bell,” when that climax of crinoline exaggera- 
tion appeared upon the scene. 

In her house she was more independent still. 
It was a square house, modest, yet roomy, with 
the inevitable cupola on top. The house was 
painted gray with darker gray blinds, to suit the 
taste of the mistress, who disapproved the pre- 
vailing white and green of the suburb where she 
lived. When she refurnished her parlor, some 
fifteen years after her marriage, she boldly re- 
jected the brilliant crimsons and liberal gildings 
of the period in favor of quiet colors. She chose 
a carpet of olive-brown Brussels with a dull red 
palm-leaf pattern, and window hangings of olive 
brown rep and plush, the effect being lightened 
by inner curtains of the finest and whitest mus- 
lin. Her furniture and her wall-paper were in 
soft neutral tints such as would to-day be called 
aesthetic, though they were little appreciated at 
that time, even by Ben himself. Indeed, if the 
truth were known, Ben, when he gave his wife 


Pratt Portraits. 


87 


carte blanche for refurnishing, had been dazzled 
by the most resplendent visions of red velvet sofas 
and a red velvet carpet bestrewn with baskets of 
pink and white roses, similar to, but even sur- 
passing in brilliancy, the possessions of his wealthy 
brother-in-law J ames Spencer. His cheerful resig- 
nation when this glittering bubble of his fancy 
was pricked by the delicate point of his wife’s 
finer perception, only showed what a thoroughly 
good Christian Ben was, and the amiability with 
which he submitted to the olive browns was 
eventually not without its reward. For many 
years after, the wheel of fashion having taken 
another turn, he had the satisfaction of seeing his 
neighbors revolutionize their houses at great 
expense, for the sake of bringing about the very 
condition of subdued harmony which had so long 
reigned under his own roof. Then it was that 
Mrs. Ben, who had meanwhile become an old 
woman, reaped a belated harvest of praise, and 
rejoiced in the consciousness of having proved 
herself to have been thirty years in advance of 
her time. 

But this is a digression. 

At the date in question, though the olive 
browns had not yet found their justification, Mrs. 
Ben, or Martha, as she was more familiarly called, 
had won a reputation as a very safe authority in 
matters of taste. 

She was now the mother of five children, rang- 
ing in age from eighteen-year-old Ben down to 


88 


Bens Wife, 


little Kddie, a small mischief of five. She lavished 
upon them an adoring affection, yet she was not 
an over-indulgent mother, for she had very well- 
defined theories in regard to education. Her hus- 
band, secure in the conviction that his children 
would get all the training they needed without 
his doing violence to his own inclinations in the 
cause of discipline, was not afraid to spoil them 
to his heart’s content ; and there was no denying 
that he, with his good-humored smile and sly 
jokes, had, all unconsciously, stolen many a 
march upon his wife in their young affections. 

Ben had a great respect for his wife’s theories, 
though he himself did not possess the sign of one. 
She, on her part, could forgive him the lack, 
since her own pet theories found an embodiment 
in his person. He was her ideal of what a man 
should be — an exemplification of all the broad 
virtues which she considered essential in a manly 
character. He had courage, integrity, good 
judgment, and equanimity. Moreover, his very 
failings were such as to endear him still more to 
his wife. In the first place he was forgetful, a 
shortcoming which tallied very satisfactorily with 
her theory that a man should be too much pre- 
occupied with great affairs to have a memory for 
small ones. Another source of gratification to her 
was his negligence in regard to his clothes and 
other belongings ; she having always entertained a 
lively contempt for a “ finical ’ ’ man. Best of all, 
he was open-handed to a fault, an admired weak- 


Pratt Portraits, 


89 


ness which she joyfully corrected by the practice 
of small and persistent economies, such as she 
would have censured in him. 

Martha’s excitability of temperament, due, not 
to nerves, but to an uncommonly active imagina- 
tion, was a constant source of wonder to Ben, 
though as years went by he had learned to treat 
it lightly. 

‘ ‘ Ben, ’ ’ she would exclaim at supper of a Satur- 
day evening, while her eyes grew big with appre- 
hension, and suppressed anxiety vibrated in her 
voice — “ O Ben ! Did you remember to order any 
dinner for to-morrow ? ” It was plain that the 
vision of a starving family had suddenly terrified 
her imagination. 

Ben would take a spoonful of quince preserve 
with the slow relish of an epicure, then look across 
the table at his anxious helpmeet, with a deepen- 
ing of the crow’s feet which a life of quiet humor 
had prematurely graven at the corners of his blue 
eyes, and say, in a tone of inimitable self-com- 
placency : “ Yes, Martha, I got a little salt fish 

and a cent’s worth of asparagus.” 

Then the children would become hilarious over 
their father’s wit, Martha would draw a long sigh 
of relief, untroubled by his jesting, and, behold, 
the crisis was passed. 

Ben’s wife was a great reader of books, especially 
of history ; and the histories of that day being 
chiefly a succession of royal biographies, her 
imagination was peopled with kings and queens. 


90 


Bens Wife. 


She had always cherished a secret desire to behold 
a crowned head — a desire of which she was a little 
ashamed, in her republican heart, yet which rose 
to fever heat when the papers announced the 
coming visit of the young Prince of Wales to this 
country. His head, to be sure, had not yet been 
crowned, but was he not the next heir to the great 
throne of England, and was he not a youth in 
whom past and future united to produce an historic 
and romantic personage of the first water ? And 
she, Martha Hazeldean (for so she still called 
herself in her moments of exaltation), she was 
to behold with her own eyes this royal boy. 
She eagerly read all the newspaper items which 
heralded and accompanied his visit to Canada, 
whilst Harper's Weekly, to which she was a sub- 
scriber, acquired a new and dramatic interest 
when portraits of the young prince began to 
appear among the illustrations of that admirable 
paper. 

Ben was, of course, well aware of his wife’s state 
of mind. If he had tried to do so, he could not 
have shared her feeling, and it never occurred to 
him to try. Ben was not sufficiently subtle to 
make any endeavors to cultivate sentiments 
which did not spring up of their own accord. He 
was republican to the core, and he could not see 
that Queen Victoria’s son was necessarily more 
interesting than his own boys. That a great 
country, which had emancipated itself at the cost 
of blood and treasure from all the ‘ ‘ folderol ’ ’ of 


Pratt Portraits, 


91 


royalty, should be so ready to make a toy of it at 
the first opportunity, struck him as being quite as 
absurd as though his eighteen-year-old Ben were 
deliberately to go back to nursery rhymes and 
tin soldiers. 

But though Ben did not share his wife’s feelings 
he was as ready to gratify them as though they 
had been his own. 

One pleasant afternoon in October, Mrs. Ben, 
adorned with a black silk apron and wearing a 
deep Shaker sun-bonnet, was out in the garden 
gathering a basketful of late nasturtiums, with 
which to put a touch of autumn sunshine into her 
olive-brown parlor. She had the faculty of dis- 
posing a bit of color just in the place where it was 
needed, and Ben had begun to perceive that these 
judicious touches gave their rooms a gayer, 
cheerier air, than all the downright crimson and 
gold seemed able to impart to the highly colored 
apartments which had once been his envy. 

As she stooped to trace with careful fingers the 
windings of one of thexielicate, brittle stems, she 
heard a step upon the gravel walk, and glancing 
up, beheld her husband coming toward her. His 
appearance so early in the day would have alarmed 
her had she not perceived a twinkle of roguish 
mystery in his eyes, which he was vainly trying 
to repress. 

“Why, Ben ! ” she exclaimed, rising hastily to 
her feet and hurrying toward him. “ What has 
brought you home so early ? ’ ’ 


92 


Bens Wife, 


“ Is it early ? he asked, innocently, making 
as though he would attack the citadel of the 
Shaker bonnet, 

“ Oh ! oh ! You ’ll muss my hair !” she cried, 
retreating. 

“ All done up for the afternoon ? ” 

“ Of course it is,” was the reproachful answer. 
‘ ‘ But, Ben, what has brought you home so early?’ ’ 

” Old Pacer,” he replied, this time with a still 
more quizzical look. 

Ben was not the man to be hurried into an 
agreeable disclosure. He loved too well the 
pleasures of anticipation; 

” Has anything happened ? ” she asked, with 
growing impatience. 

‘ ‘ Yes. I ’ ve got home. ’ ’ 

Ben was sometimes very trying. 

“Come, Martha,” he called, as she started, in 
simulated dudgeon, to walk away to her nastur- 
tium beds, “ let ’s go and get some grapes.” 

‘ ‘ Good — ain’ t they ? ” he observed, as they sat in 
the long arbor, eating the delicious Catawbas that 
grew in beautiful clusters just within their reach. 

A pleasant silence fell upon them, broken only 
by the clucking of hens in a neighbor’s yard, 
while the mellow October sunshine filtered 
through the thinning vines and checkered the 
backs of the two figures sitting amicably together. 
Martha had taken off her Shaker bonnet, and the 
sunshine slanted across the glossy black hair, 
which was brushed smoothl}^ down over the ears, 


Pratt Portraits. 


93 


and passed in flat braids across the back of the 
head. She was not as much absorbed in epicu- 
rean delight as her husband seemed to be, but 
since he was in a teasing mood it was not worth 
while to talk to him. 

Presently he spoke in an absent tone which 
seemed a trifle studied, while he held up a fresh 
bunch of grapes to his own admiring gaze. 

“I don’t s’pose, Martha, that you’d care any- 
thing about going to the Prince’s ball ? ” 

“The Prince’s ball!’’ cried Martha, with a 
flush of excitement. Then, recovering herself : 
‘ ‘ Nonsense, Ben I What a tease you are I ’ ’ 

“Oh, then you would n’t care to go? Well, 
I told Edward I didn’t think you’d take any 
interest in it, and I felt pretty sure you would 
n’t want the trouble of having a ball-dress made. 
I know I should n’t.’’ 

‘ ‘ O Ben ! Is there really going to be a ball 
for the Prince, and is Edward going ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, Edward ’s going, and he thought may 
be, as Eucia was in mourning, you might like to 
take her place and go with him. But I didn’t 
s’pose you ’d care much about it.” 

Martha’s face glowed, and Ben’s countenance 
was simply brimming with satisfaction as he 
watched the dawning upon her of this great, this 
stupendous idea. 

“ O Ben I you know I should like to go I Of 
course you said yes; now did n’t you ? Ah, don’t 
tease ! Come, tell me all about it. ’ ’ 


94 


Pratt Portraits. 


Then Ben, having sipped his cup of pleasure 
long enough, proceeded to drink it down in gen- 
erous draughts ; for he loved, of all things, to 
make Martha’s eyes shine. 

For the next ten days Mrs. Ben was in a whirl 
of excitement. In the first place, there was the 
gown to be bought and made. She decided upon 
a “moir4 antique,” a silk then in the height of 
fashion, and which she considered economical, 
because of its great durability. She was divided 
in her mind between several neutral tints. One 
was called “ashes of roses ” ; another rejoiced in 
the euphonious name of “monkey’s breath.” 
When she finally fixed her choice upon a rich 
“ mauve,” Ben could not be persuaded to call it 
anything but ‘ ‘ ashes of monkeys. ’ ’ But to 
Martha, nothing which concerned the ball seemed 
a fit subject for mirth. It was really a solemn 
occasion to her, this entering into the immediate, 
the actual presence of royalty. The only diffi- 
culty was that it engrossed her thoughts too 
much. She felt it ; she regretted it ; yet do what 
she would, she could not keep her thoughts fixed 
upon any other subject. 

She had not dared entrust the making of so 
grand a gown to little Miss Plimpton, who went 
out by the day, and had hitherto contented the 
ambition of the family, and she had thus fallen a 
victim to a fashionable dressmaker, who had the 
reputation of disappointing her customers. Hence, 
in the days that were to elapse before her gown 


Ben s Wife. 


95 


should come home, poor Martha did not have a 
moment’s peace of mind. Questions also arose 
of the very highest importance in regard to the 
fashion of the dress, which she alone could 
decide. Should the skirt be looped in five fes- 
toons, or six ? Should the trimming be of black 
lace, or white ? Was llama lace sufficiently rich 
for a Prince’s ball, or did etiquette demand “real 
thread ’ ’ ? On the one hand, llama lace was much 
cheaper, but then it was quite inferior. And is 
not the best the cheapest, when judged by true 
standards? Thread lace, for instance, could be 
handed down from generation to generation, and 
would always be valuable. It was almost like 
real-estate, or diamonds. If she only had dia- 
monds to wear, by the way ! But alas ! though 
she was a Hazeldean, her share of the family 
jewels consisted in a pair of topaz ear-rings 
and a set of turquoise ; both of which were 
manifestly unsuited to a state occasion. Kven 
the diamond ring which Ben had given her 
on their tenth anniversary would be concealed by 
her glove. 

These, and like perplexities and speculations, 
were chasing each other like mad through her 
brain while she went about her household duties, 
and, sad to say, even when she sat in church. 
Strive as she might the next Sunday, she could 
not rid her mind of the idea that the number of 
festoons in her skirt was to be settled by the 
number of heads in Mr. Hawley’s sermon. And 


96 


PraLt Portraits, 


when he wound up on “ fifthly, ’ ’ so preoccupied 
was she in trying to picture to herself the ‘ ‘ effect ’ ’ 
of the five festoons thus decided upon, she 
scarcely heard the salutary admonition, “Fix not 
your hearts upon the things of this world. ’ ’ 

None of the Pratt family had thought of such 
a thing as going to the ball, and indeed it was 
well that they had not. For boasting, as they 
did, but few connections in high life, they might 
not have gained admittance. Martha’s brother 
Edward, on the other hand, had married the 
daughter of a “ merchant prince, ’ ’ (a fitting 
alliance for a Hazeldean), and he lived in the 
city, where he was quite a personage. It was, 
therefore, most natural that he should come to 
the fore on occasions like the present. 

The Pratts, however, though themselves too 
stanch in their republicanism to regret their 
own exclusion from the ball, were far from 
indifferent to Martha’s coming elevation. They 
only half approved the expensive new dress, 
indeed, on the ground that she was not 
likely ever to have another chance to wear it, 
but they were none the less eager to see her 
in it, and there were few persons among their 
large acquaintance who had not been informed 
that “ Ben’s wife was going to the Prince’s ball.” 
Whence it is fair to conclude that they were not 
positively ashamed of the circumstance. 

Old Eady Pratt alone held out against the 
popular current of curiosity and excitement. She 


97 


Bens Wife, 

had a vivid recollection of the War of 1812, and 
of the burning of public buildings at Washington, 
and to her the British were, and would always 
remain, “the enemy.” As to “ Martha’s craze,” 
she contented herself with one bit of sarcasm, 
which gave her much gratification and hurt 
nobody. She told Harriet, her eldest daughter 
and confidante, that she “ s’ posed Martha was 
countin’ on gettin’ a chance to tell the Prince 
that she was a Hazeldean.” 

For her own part. Old Fady Pratt was con- 
vinced that she would not have gone to the 
window to look out if the procession had passed 
through Green Street ; a degree of patriotism on 
the old lady’s part, which was, happily, not des- 
tined to be put to the test. 

The ball was to take place on Thursday even- 
ing, and on Wednesday morning the Prince actu- 
ally did arrive in Boston. The two boys, Ben 
and Hazeldean, who went to school in town, 
witnessed the august entry into the city, but 
the rest of the family succeeded in curbing their 
impatience until the grand procession which was 
announced for the next day. Mrs. Ben awaited 
the return of the boys with the keenest interest. 
She was somewhat disappointed in their report, 
in which the ‘ ‘ Tight Dragoons ’ ’ and the crowd 
of spectators played a more conspicuous part 
than the Prince himself. To her urgent inquiries 
in regard to his Royal Highness, these unsus- 
ceptible young republicans had nothing more 
7 


98 


Pratt Portraits. 


definite to say than that they “ guessed he was 
well enough.” 

The grand gown had not yet arrived, but 
during supper a messenger, who had been sent to 
inquire about it, came back with the cheering 
assurance that it was coming in an hour. There- 
upon the boys were despatched to tell Aunt Har- 
riet and the girls that their mother would try on 
the dress as soon as it should arrive, and would 
be glad of their opinion. Little Eddie, who was 
somewhat hoarse, and was in wholesome fear of 
missing the procession next day, submitted to an 
early bed, but all the rest of the family sat await- 
ing, with bated breath, the arrival of the gown. 
It was a tedious evening, for the faithless dress- 
maker did not redeem her promise until nearly 
ten o’clock. In fact, Harriet and the girls were 
on the point of departing when the door-bell 
rang, sending a tidal wave of excitement over the 
stagnant waters of the company. 

The gown was displayed with much ceremony, 
and all agreed that it was ‘ ‘ both handsome and 
genteel.” Harriet and the girls helped put it 
on, and so satisfying was the effect that the 
wished-for jewels were scarcely missed. Indeed, 
something of the translucent light and glow of 
gems seemed to emanate from the mother-of-pearl 
fan with which Edward had thoughtfully pre- 
sented his sister, and which lent a peculiar air of 
distinction to the toilette. 

Late as the hour was, they all lingered a long 


99 


Bens Wife, 

time, chattering and admiring and speculating as 
to the impending glories. The boys, being sleepy 
after the conflicting duties and excitements of 
the day in the city, were the first to disappear. 
Then the Pratt girls were sent to bed, and pres- 
ently Ben escorted his sister and nieces home, 
leaving Martha in solitary possession of her own 
magnificence. 

While the voices of her departing guests were 
still audible on the stairs, Martha, who could no 
longer restrain her impatience for a complete 
view of herself, mounted upon a chair before her 
toilet-glass. From this eminence she could see her 
voluminous skirts to great advantage, and even 
the open-worked stockings encased in bronze 
slippers were visible. The head, to be sure, was 
not included in the reflection — a fact which quite 
escaped her notice ; for Martha’s vanity was of a 
singularly impersonal kind, and she was as un- 
conscious of any charms of countenance as she 
was of the graces of disposition which others 
prized in her. It was the gown, and that alone, 
which commanded her respect and admiration. 
She stood there so lost in contemplation of its 
beauties that she scarcely noticed that her guests 
still lingered in the passage-way, till she heard 
the heavy thud of the front door closing upon 
them. 

A sudden hush ensued. She stood upon the 
chair, turning slowly round and round after the 
manner of the lay figures in the shop- windows, 


lOO 


Fratt Portraits. 


when suddenly she became aware of a strange, 
muffled sound. She paused, straining her ear 
to listen. What was it ? Her heart stood still 
beneath the stiff breastplate of moir6 antique. 
Could it be burglars ? No ; it was too early, and 
there were lights burning. Was it the wind ? 
The wind never made a sound like that. And 
even while she tried to reason about it, the con- 
viction seized her that it was a creature in dis- 
tress. Only for a moment did she stand motion- 
less, her eyes dilating with dread, the blood 
vSurging to her heart. Then, with a stifled cry, 
she sprang from the chair, flinging far from her 
the fan which she had held in her hand, and rushed 
to her dressing-room, through her dressing-room 
to little Eddie’s chamber beyond ; for — oh, terri- 
ble certainty ! — it was from his room, from his 
bed, from his lips, that the blood-curdling sound 
came ! 

‘ ‘ My darling ! my precious ! what is it ? ” she 
cried, bending over him in mortal terror. ‘ ‘ Speak 
my darling ! speak, Eddie ! Tell mother. ’ ’ 

But the cruel gurgling and gasping were the 
only answer. With shaking hands she struck a 
light. There lay the poor little fellow battling for 
his life, his face purple, his eyes bright with dis- 
tress. 

She opened the entry door, and fairly flew to 
the boys’ room. “Ben ! Ben !” she cried, “run 
for the doctor ! Eddie is dying of the croup ! Run 
for your life ! Hazeldean ! go for Dr. Baxter ; Dr. 


Bens Wife, 


lOl 


Walton may be out. Run, boys ! Fetch some 
one — any one ! Run ! ’ ’ 

The boys were on their feet in an instant. In 
another moment she was at the child’s bedstead, 
trying one ineffectual remedy after another. Her 
slender science was soon exhausted, all to no pur- 
pose. The struggle went on in a succession of 
alarming paroxysms. Then she sat upon the bed 
and held the suffocating child in her arms, trem- 
bling in a despairing knowledge that she could 
not help him, yet with the deep overwhelming 
urgency of a mother’s love, which cannot credit 
its own impotency. She held him close, one of his 
little hands convulsively clasping hers, the small 
curly head pressed hard against her breast. Oh ! 
the pathos of those baby curls, and that drawn, 
agonized baby face ! 

“ In a minute, my precious ! ” she kept saying, 
‘‘ in a minute the doctor ’ll come and make you 
well — just a minute, my poor darling. It ’ll be 
over soon.” 

Over ? How ? As she spoke the words a 
desolating fear swept all her faith away, and 
suddenly, as in a flash of light, those other 
words, unheeded and forgotten, struck upon her 
memory : ‘ ‘ Fix not your hearts upon the things 

of this world. ’ ’ 

She looked down with a quick pang of remorse 
upon the stiff moire antique. Alas ! she who 
would have enfolded her darling in the softest 
textures, must see him lie in his extremity against 


102 


Pratt Portraits. 


the cold, untender surface of this hateful gown ! 
The poignancy of that thought was almost more 
than she could bear, and in the sudden rush of 
remorse and terror all her innocent vanity stood 
distorted into the guise of sin. 

“ My God ! my God ! ” she prayed, as she had 
never prayed before, “ I have been a wicked, 
worldly woman ! Oh, my God ! have pity ! ’ ’ 
No other words came, but all through those inter- 
minable minutes while she waited for help, ‘ ‘ Have 
pity ! ” she prayed, — “ have pity ! ” 

And suddenly, like an angel of deliverance, 
the doctor stood before her. He stooped and lifted 
the child from her arms, saying: “Don’t be 
frightened, Martha, we ’ll save him 3^et.’’ And 
she no more doubted his word than she would 
have doubted him had he indeed been an angel 
sent straight from heaven in answer to her prayer. 

By two o’clock all was quiet and the child was 
sleeping peacefully. 

“Come, Martha,” Ben said, putting his hand 
on her shoulder as she sat by the bedside, still clad 
in the moird antique. “ Come, do go to bed, the 
doctor says there is nothing to fear, and I ’ll sit 
up with Eddie. You won’t be fit for the ball 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“The ball! the ball!” she repeated. “Oh, 
Ben !” 

But she went and changed the ball dress, shud- 
dering as she listened to its stiff rattle, and then, 
in a soft wrapper, she la^^ dovm upon the bed be- 


Bens Wife. 


103 


side her boy. All night she listened to his easy, 
regular breathing, and all night long there was 
such a thanksgiving in her heart that she could 
not sleep. 

The next day the child was quite himself again, 
trotting about the house, as active and as naughty 
as he had ever been in his life. He told his sisters 
he had had a “bad dream.” It had, indeed, been 
a bad dream, a nightmare, which in his mother’s 
eyes threw its ominous shadow upon all that had 
preceded and all that was to have followed it. No 
amount of reasoning could induce her to go to the 
ball, nor could she bring herself to look upon that 
terrible midnight hour as anything but a punish- 
ment and a warning. 

‘ ‘ I can’t help what you say, Ben, ’ ’ she protested 
with a fervor which he only half understood. 
“I ’ve been a wicked, thoughtless woman. If 
I had n’t had my heart ‘ fixed upon the things of 
this world, ’ I should n’t have been parading about 
in that moird antique dress, talking so fast that I 
could n’t hear that precious child gasping for the 
breath of life. Think of it ! only think of it ! A 
little helpless child lying at death’s door, while 
his mother’s head was so full of princes and balls 
that she had forgotten she had a child to her 
name ! No, Ben, I would n’t go a single step. It 
would be tempting Providence. And besides,” 
she added, giving what was, after all, the true 
reason, “I could n’t.” 

“ And Edward? ” urged Ben, whose argumen- 


104 


Pratt Portraits, 


tative powers were not great. ‘ ‘ And Edward ? 
And that handsome gown ? ’ ’ 

“Edward will have to go without me. And 
the gown?” She paused an instant, while a 
familiar look came into the ardent face. ‘ ‘ Why, 
the gown will make over nicely for one of the 
girls when they are grown up. You know, Ben, 
the colors I choose don’t go out of fashion. The 
Hazeldeans all have good taste. ’ ’ 

Ben was consoled and relieved. Martha might 
give up the ball— though he did n’t see the sense 
of it, — ^but she had not changed her nature yet ; 
she was still a Hazeldean. 

That day all the family but the inconsolable 
Eddie and his mother went to town to Uncle 
Edward’s office, to see the procession escort the 
Prince to the State-House. They came home with 
glowing accounts of the fine display. Even Ben, 
the heretic, had found it surprisingly interesting 
to be looking straight down out of his own repub- 
lican eyes at the future King of England, and he 
owned as much. 

“And to think, Martha, that you shouldn’t 
see the Prince after all ! ” he said at supper. 

“ Had n’t you better change your mind, and go 
to the ball ? ” he added, coaxingly ; for a moral 
impossibility is a difficult thing to make other 
people understand. 

Martha was at that moment engaged in the 
motherly office of drying the fingers of her young- 
est, who had been surreptitiously dabbling them 


105 


Bens Wife, 

in his bowl of milk. She was thinking how she 
adored that little, chubby, mischievous paw, and 
“the things of this world,” including the Prince 
and all his train, seemed to her very remote and 
indifferent. 

‘‘No, Ben,” she said, “I don’t care anything 
about the ball.” 

This was more conclusive than the ardor with 
which she had met his previous appeals, and Ben 
gave up the contest. 

Perhaps the only person in the family who 
wholly sympathized with Mrs. Ben’s feeling 
was her sharp little mother-in-law. When news 
was brought her of Martha’s “foolish notion” 
of not going to the ball, just because Kddie had 
had the croup in the night — and not the real 
croup at that, her informant added, — Old Tady 
Pratt behaved in a very disappointing manner. 
In the first place, she took off her spectacles and 
rubbed them vigorously with her folded pocket- 
handkerchief before she spoke ; a thing she did, 
only when a good deal moved ; and then she 
said, with unusual warmth, “Martha ’s a good 
woman, I declare for ’t, if she is a Hazeldean !” 


V. 


A YANKEE QUIXOTE. 

N OW, Jane Bennett, you ain’t no call to 
fash yourself about William,” said Old 
Eady Pratt, looking over her steel- 
bowed spectacles at her daughter. 
” William ’s got too good a head-piece to think 
jest as other folks do about every thing, and 
you might as well give up, fust as last, expectin’ 
him to be cut and dried in his opinions. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Henry Bennett, of Westville, who was 
paying her mother a visit, never let conversation 
languish for lack of a retort. 

” I don’t know ’s William ’s got any better right 
to his opinions than other folks have to theirs. 
And it ’s my opinion that he ’s disgracing the 
family with his wrong-headed talk. ’ ’ 

. Old Eady Pratt bridled. ” Ef the family never 
gits no wuss disgraced than that, I guess there 
wont be no great cause for blushin’ . ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Well, Mother ! ’ ’ snapped Jane. ‘ ‘ You always 
did take William’s part. I don’t know ’s we ’d 
ought to expect you to change in your old age ! ’ ’ 
Old Eady Pratt was not fond of bickerings, so 
she let this thrust pass without rebuke. 

io6 


A Yankee Quixote, 107 

Jane Bennett, as her mother had made a point 
of calling her, ever since she persisted in marry- 
ing contrary to the best advice, was something 
of a thorn in the old lady’s flesh. One could see 
that, as often as the two women talked together. 
Jane was superficially almost the counterpart of 
her mother : in appearance, small, dark, and erect. 
But in her the decision of her mother’s character 
took on the form of obstinacy ; the wholesome 
tartness of the elder woman’s speech, had, in the 
younger, degenerated to acidity. Old I^ady 
Pratt was distinguished by a certain liberal mind- 
edness. With some few exceptions she was open 
to new ideas and tolerant of innovations. Jane, 
though very much given to harboring fixed ideas, 
was inclined, when once her mind was turned 
in a new direction, to go to extremes. When 
homoeopathy, for instance, came into vogue, she 
not only accepted it for herself, but she pushed 
her son, ignorant and untrained, into a pretence of 
the practice of it. The wrong thus wrought he 
discovered, and set right as far as in him lay, but 
Jane Bennett never suspected the harm she had 
done. She had not a keen scent for her own mis- 
takes, and her self-complacence was, therefore, 
rarely disturbed. As few people ever argued with 
her, she had not that familiarity with opposition 
which more yielding natures early acquire. Hence 
she found it impossible to reconcile herself to the 
quiet declaration of a heresy with which her 
brother William had recently startled her. 


io8 


Pratt Portraits. 


It was the troublous autumn of i860. Abraham 
I^incoln’s election had struck terror to the hearts 
of the conservative part of the community. 
Many a man who, four years later, was to regard 
that plain backwoodsman as the hero and savior 
of the nation, shrank from the impending conse- 
quences of his election. William Pratt was one 
of the conservatives. 

“The South will secede,” he had declared 
with conviction, when the election was discussed 
in family conclave. 

“ Then we ’ll teach them a lesson ! ” said his 
sister Jane, vindictively. 

“ I suppose we shall,” William admitted, “ but 
we have n’t any business to. They have as good 
a right to go out of the Union as they had to 
come into it. ” 

For a moment even Jane was speechless. Then 
she said with withering sarcasm : ‘ ‘ Perhaps you 
think there ’s nothing wrong about slavery ? ’ ’ 

“ You ’ve found me out, Jane. I will not de- 
ceive you. If the South should win, I propose 
to buy a cat-o’ -nine- tails and a brace of blood- 
hounds, and apply for a place as overseer. ’ ’ 

And that was all Jane could get out of her 
brother on the subject. His flippant jest about 
slavery could not be taken seriously, but at least 
it was clear that he believed in the right of seces- 
sion, and she made the most of that. 

Jane did not love her brother William. The 
two were “bom to fight,” as their placid, easy- 


A Yankee Quixote. 


09 


going father — now at rest — had long ago declared. 
Jane’s marriage and removal to another town 
might have brought about a truce, had she not 
carried with her the rankling memory of one of 
William’s very worst and most reprehensible 
speeches. When all the family were up in arms 
about her predilection for Henry Bennett, Wil- 
liam had said to his mother — and Jane had over- 
heard the taunt: “We may as well make up 
our minds to Jane, Mother. There ’s no use in 
trying to reason with her, since she ’s got too old 
to be spanked. ’ ’ 

It was certainly a most indecorous as well as 
disrespectful remark, and one which Jane had 
every reason to resent. How could she be ex- 
pected, after that, to feel a proper gratitude, 
when the offender subsequently loaned her hus- 
band fifteen hundred dollars, without interest 
and with but small hope of return ? What if 
this timely help did enable Henry Bennett to set 
up for himself in his trade of optician? What 
money obligations could atone to a really noble 
mind for a personal insult ? Henceforth Jane 
nursed her grievance and hated her brother to 
her heart’s content. 

This was not the only time that William Pratt 
had ‘ ‘ tied a knot with his tongue which he could 
not untie with his teeth.’’ He was not a 
bad-tempered man himself, but he was often 
the occasion of bad temper in others. He had 
his enemies, men who, with or without reason, 


I lO 


Pratt Portraits. 


regarded him with strong antipathy^ who hated 
the way he held his head and disliked the fashion 
of his canes. But he rarely put himself out for 
the sake of conciliating them. His own path had 
not been so smooth that he should feel the neces- 
sity of strewing rose-leaves under the feet of his 
fellow-creatures. There was, perhaps, more ten- 
derness in his nature than he would have been 
willing to acknowledge, but it was not often 
called out now-a-days. 

While yet a very young man, he had loved 
and married Isabel Allen, a woman peculiarly 
suited to him. There had been no disillusion- 
ment during the three happy years that followed 
— hardworking years, dearer to him than the 
hope of heaven. When a malignant disease 
robbed him, at one stroke, of his wife and boy, he 
felt that he had had his day, and he doggedly set 
himself to do his duty in an arid path. Though 
an unpopular man he soon earned the title of 
“public-spirited citizen.” People learned that 
while an appeal to his feelings was not apt to be 
successful, an appeal to his reason, and to his sense 
of justice was rarely made in vain. It was the 
latter appeal that he yielded to when he thought 
he had discovered that Edna Brown had fallen in 
love with him. It happened about five years 
after the death of his wife. He did not particu- 
larly admire Edna Brown, though he was aware 
that most men did, and he would greatly have 
preferred to lead his own life, unhampered by new 


A Yankee Quixote. 


1 1 1 


ties. But if Kdna, who never concealed what 
she would have called her feelings, thought he 
could make her happy, he would not let his 
preferences stand in the way of her trying the 
experiment. Having married her, he was an 
excellent husband. Anything within reason that 
she wanted she might have. He was doing 
a good business in cotton, going to his ofl&ce in 
the city every day, after the manner of suburbans 
— and in the course of time he built a very fine 
house, entirely in accordance with his wife’s 
somewhat high-flying notions. Had Edna been 
exacting in the matter of sentiment he might not 
have found it so easy to content her, but as time 
went on it gradually dawned upon his plain, 
masculine intelligence, that perhaps, after all, 
Edna’s infatuation had not been purely a tribute 
to his personal attractions. Such a discovery is 
not altogether pleasant to a man, even when the 
opposite state of things might be embarrassing. 
But William Pratt took it philosophically. He 
subjected his own physiognomy, mental and 
physical, to an impartial scrutiny, and he arrived 
at the conclusion that he had been a fool for his 
pains. That somewhat heavy countenance, with 
thick, bristling eyebrows and firm-set mouth, 
was not calculated to attract any woman, least of 
all an Edna Brown ; that caustic tongue that had 
estranged so many friends was hardly adapted to 
wooing. He must have changed a good deal, he 
reflected drearily, since last he looked into Isabel’s 


I 12 


Pratt Portraits. 


eyes and read their adoration. Poor Edna ! Per- 
haps after all he had cheated her out of what 
most women want. And from that time forth 
there was an added touch of kindness and solici- 
tousness in his dealings with her, which filled 
Edna with satisfaction, as showing that she had 
kept her husband’s affection longer than many 
women do. 

There were three children, Mary, the eldest, 
being now fourteen. Their father was fond of them 
all in his undemonstrative way, though he loved 
them with an unconscious mental reservation. 
Once there was a discussion in his hearing on 
the subject of the English law of primogeniture. 
He took no part in the talk himself, but his mind 
reverted to the two-year-old boy he had lost so 
long ago, and it seemed to him that there was, 
after all, something peculiarly strong in the claims 
of one’s first-born. His children, in their turn, 
found him a sufficiently kind and indulgent father, 
though they were not on terms of intimacy with 
him. At Christmas-time he took pains to find 
out their secret wishes. If the little girls some- 
times incurred their mother’s displeasure by tear- 
ing or soiling their clothes he was ready to inter- 
cede for them. If Willie, the baby, bumped his 
head and roared with pain and temper, it was his 
father who patiently sopped the bruise with cold 
water aud told him not to cry. Yet William 
Pratt was not one of those fathers whose children 
cling about their legs and stand on the rounds of 


A Yankee Quixote, 1 1 3 

their chair, and the little ones thought nothing of 
going to bed without bidding him good-night. 

With his nephews and nieces the case was not 
altogether different. They had a certain regard 
for him, largely induced by the transfer, from his 
pocket to theirs, of pennies, dimes, or quarters, 
the magnitude of the offering being carefully 
adapted to the age of the recipient. He liked to see 
them happy, and he did not know any other way 
of making them so. Yet there was not the same 
spontaneity in their affection for him, as in their 
love for Uncle Ben, whose small coins were not 
more migratory in their disposition than Uncle 
William’s, but who had the gift of pinching their 
cheeks in a manner to rouse their deepest feelings, 
and who could tip them a wink worth more than 
money. 

William’s best friend was his mother, but even 
she was not his confidante. She had been very 
proud of his conquest of Edna Brown, the belle of 
Dunbridge, and she took his happiness for granted. 
If Old Eady Pratt had a favorite child, that child 
was William. She delighted in his sharp sayings 
almost as much as in his successful career and his 
singular uprightness. In fact the latter sometimes 
cost her a pang, so frequently did it conflict with 
her son’s own interests. 

Only a day or two after Jane’s visit William 
came in to see his mother after chturch, as was his 
custom. His deaf sister, Betsy, who was just a 
little afraid of William, had trotted off, nothing 


Pratt Portraits, 


114 

loath, to help about the dinner. Old I^ady Pratt 
having accomplished her devotions in a very 
thorough and satisfactory manner, had now put 
on her Sunday cap of white mull and her gold 
spectacles, and felt herself at liberty to consider 
worldly things. 

“William,” she said with much interest, 
“ ain’t cotton goin’ up pretty fast ? ” 

“Yes, there ’s been a big rise this month, and 
it ’s likely to go on if things don’t quiet down at 
the South.” 

“ Anson was tellin’ me you ’d got a large stock 
on hand. You ’d oughter make a sight o’ money. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t expect to make more than usual.” 

“ Why ! I don’t see how you can help it if you 
try.” 

“Isha’n’t have to try so very hard. I shall 
sell my stock at a fair profit and no more.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you ’ll sell below 
the market-price ! ’ ’ 

“ If the market-price is n’t a fair one I don’t 
propose to be governed by it. ’ ’ 

Old Lady Pratt was quick but never hasty. 
She got up and pulled the shade down in one of 
the south windows, and then she put on a little 
knit shawl, a contradictory mode of procedure 
which showed that her mind was not on what she 
was doing. After that she resumed her straight- 
backed chair and gave utterance to her views. 

“’Pears to me you ’re wrong, William,” she 
said. “ ’T ain’t as though you sold straight to 


A Yankee Qtdxote. 1 1 5 

the people. They ain’t going to git the good of 
your generosity. You ’ll only be a putting 
money into the pockets of the rich manufactur- 
ers. That ’s plain enough to see.” 

“If the manufacturers choose to pocket what 
does n’t belong to them, that is n’t my lookout. 
It ’s hard times, and it ’s going to be harder, and 
I don’t mean to get rich on other people’s 
misfortunes. ’ ’ 

This time Old Tady Pratt sat still and thought. 
Her silence was particularly impressive, as she 
had not even her week-day knitting to bridge it 
over. At last she said, reflectively : “I’m afraid 
you ’ re all wrong, William. ’ T ain’ t the way folks 
do business — though I ain’t sure that your father 
wouldn’t have acted just so. And I declare for 
’t ! ” with a sudden impulsiveness very unusual 
in her. “ Bf I was you, I believe I ’d rutkerhe 
wrong than right ! ’ ’ 

And then to her son’s unbounded siurprise the 
self-contained old lady came over and gave him a 
hearty kiss — a thing which had not happened, 
except on state occasions, since he was a small 
boy. 

William himself had no misgivings. He was 
accustomed to thinking things out for himself, 
and he had very little regard for “ consequences,” 
that bugbear of many a thinker. It used to seem 
to him as though certain of the practical men of 
his acquaintance were always trying to hit the 
bull’s-eye by aiming somewhere else. They fired 


Pratt Portraits, 


1 16 

away and reloaded, and fired away again, and 
collected their bag of game entirely regardless of 
the target, which, nevertheless, most of them 
had set up for themselves at the beginning of the 
match. He was quite ready to acknowledge that 
he missed his aim as often as not, but it was not 
for the sake of side issues. And as to this matter 
of the cotton, he did not care to go into the 
pros and cons of it. There was but one thing 
to be considered, and that was an innate repug- 
nance to making money out of other people’s 
misfortunes. He not only would not do it if it 
was wrong ; he would have hated to do it if it 
had been ever so right. 

On the question of the right of secession 
William Pratt had thought long and deeply, 
though perhaps a little confusedly. He lived in 
a very loyal commimity. The Union was some- 
thing which most of his neighbors could not 
reason about. It was something sacred and 
unassailable as the moral law. If he tried to 
argue with them they looked at him askance, 
quite as though he had undertaken to defend 
kidnapping or burglary. It is possible that 
the opinion which he had arrived at was partly 
the result of a natural antagonism. William 
Pratt was so constituted that if he had been 
told every day of his life that a quadruped had 
necessarily four legs, it is more than likely that 
he would have come firmly to believe in the ex- 
istence of a five-legged beast of that description. 


A Yankee Quixote. 


117 


He hated to be talked at, and was capable of lov- 
ing his opinions as he loved his children, merely 
because they were his own. As the dreary 
anxious winter wore away, he did himself more 
than one ill turn by his rough handling of other 
people’s prejudices. 

One Friday evening in early April William 
went with his wife to prayer-meeting. He was a 
church member, but to Edna’s chagrin he had 
never been able to overcome a certain reticence 
sufficiently to take an active part in such a meet- 
ing. It was an understood thing that he was not 
to be called upon, and being thus exempt he used 
regularly to attend on Friday evenings. It was 
one of the many things he did purely from a sense 
of duty. 

The prayer-meetings of late had been particu- 
larly fervent. The community was in a state of 
unnatural excitement. The sense of an impend- 
ing crisis brooded heavily upon all hearts, and in 
the strong tension of public feeling an appeal to 
divine aid was the natural impulse of every reli- 
gious man. William had noticed with growing 
dissatisfaction the tendency of these meetings. 
The minister himself, who was a strong anti- 
slavery man, gave the tone to the proceedings. 
It seemed to William that a prayer-meeting 
should not be turned into an expression of parti- 
san feeling. On this occasion he listened with 
ill-suppressed indignation to the prayers which 
followed each other in quick succession. Nearly 


1 1 8 Pratt Portraits, 

every one of them was an appeal for aid for the 
Northern cause. As he listened he was reminded 
of the somewhat personal tone Jane’s devotions 
had once taken when he and she were children : 
“ Please God, make Mother box Willie’s ears.” 

When, at last, one of the most eloquent of the 
brethren openly called for the vengeance of the 
Ivord to be visited upon the offending South, 
William felt that his turn had come. To the 
amazement of his wife, he rose deliberately to his 
feet, and gave the premonitory cough customary 
on such occasions. The vestry-room was but 
feebly lighted by kerosene lamps, one of which 
was smoking badly. In the dim, uncertain light 
he could just see the furtive glances which were 
turned towards him as the people in the sparsely 
filled seats covered their faces with their hands. 
When all heads were bowed, he began his prayer 
in a voice a little harsh from contending emotions : 

‘ ‘ God Almighty, we pray Thy mercy on our land. 
We pray to be delivered from war. We pray to 
be delivered from disunion. We pray, also, to 
be delivered from the commission of injustice. 
We pray Thee, O God, to deliver the North 
from the calamities which we dread. And we 
pray Thee to deliver our sister, the South, from 
the vengeance which we threaten. Change 
Thou the hearts of the North and of the South. 
Deliver us from ourselves, that the terrors of war 
and of disunion may be averted. Forgive our 
partisanship. Forgive our evil passions. Tead 


A Yankee Quixote. 1 1 9 

us in the ways of equity and peace. Hear, O 
God, our prayer, not for our sakes, but for the 
sake of j ustice and humanity. Amen. ’ ’ 

As the bowed heads were lifted at the close 
of this very unconventional prayer, none were 
turned toward the speaker. A constraint had 
fallen upon the meeting. Fortunately the time 
was up, and it was not necessary to prolong the 
session. The minister had risen to announce the 
closing hymn, when there was a sudden sound 
of cracking glass, and the broken chimney of the 
smoking lamp fell down on the heads and knees 
of the people below. There was a commotion in 
that comer until the flaring light was extin- 
guished, and then the minister gave out the 
closing hymn : ‘ ‘ Ford, dismiss us with Thy 

blessing. ’ ’ The inharmonious voices of the con- 
gregation rose and fell in lagging cadence upon 
the well-known tune, and then “the peace of 
God, which passeth understanding,” was invoked 
upon the heads of the belligerent meeting, and 
William Pratt found himself at liberty to go out 
into the pure night air, beneath those clear 
burning lights of heaven, that neither smoke 
nor flare. 

Kdna followed him dejectedly. Why had she 
ever wished him to ‘ ‘ take part ’ ’ ? She might 
have known he could not do it like other people. 
They walked on in silence for some distance, till 
at last she felt that forbearance was a weakness. 
Edna not infrequently found it her duty to remon- 


120 


Pratt Portraits. 


strate with her husband, though her reproofs 
were always couched in the most considerate 
language. 

“ I am almost sorry you made that prayer, 
dear,” she began, gently. She usually called 
him ‘ ‘ dear ’ ’ when she was not pleased with him. 

“Why?” he asked. 

” Because I ’m afraid it gave offence.” 

‘ ‘ To whom ? ’ ’ 

“Why, to all the people.” 

‘ ‘ It was addressed to the Almighty, ’ ’ he said 
curtly, and after that he said no more about it. 

But as he met his fellow- Christians in the week 
that followed he noticed a marked coolness in 
their demeanor toward himself, and he rejoiced 
more and more that he had taken a stand. 

Early in the following week his brother Ben 
looked in on him at his office — jovial, sweet- 
tempered Ben, who hated a row. 

“How are you. Bill?” said he. “Got time 
for a smoke ? ’ ’ Ben was the only person who 
ever thought of calling him Bill. 

They were soon established with their cigars, 
their feet on the office stove, Ben’s chair tilted 
back at a genial angle. He presently came to 
the point. 

‘ ‘ Took here. Bill. What put it into your head 
to stir up the meeting with a long pole last 
Friday evening? Anson is in a great state of 
mind. He says all the old Tabbies in town are 
by the ears about it.” 


A Yankee Qtdxote. 


I2i 


‘ ‘ I don’t know what you mean by a long pole, ’ ’ 
said William, gnifily ; “I asked the Lord to bless 
the North and the South and to keep them from 
laying hands on each other.” 

“Not much use in that,” Ben declared. 
“ There ’s bound to be a war.” 

“Think so ? I’m afraid you ’re right.” 

For a time they puffed on in silence. Then 
William asked : 

“What shall you do about it if there is one ? ” 

“ Do about it ? ” 

“Yes, do about it. Shall you fight ? ” 

“I? Fight? Good gracious no! I ’m no 
fighting man. I could n’t stick a bayonet into a 
sheep to save my soul.” 

“There’s a good deal that’s disagreeable 
about war,” William answered dryly. “I, for 
one, would rather let the South go about their 
business.” 

“ We can’t do that,” said Ben, with conviction. 
“We ’ve got the right on our side, and we ’re 
bound to maintain it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It all seems perfectly clear to you, apparently. ’ ’ 

“ Yes. I can’t see that the thing ’s got two 
sides. But,” brightening, “ do you know. Bill, 
it ’s very lucky that you don’t look at it as the 
rest of us do, for if you did, it would be just like 
you to go to the war yourself. You ’d be the 
very fellow to go down there and get shot.” 

“It will certainly be just like a good many 
poor fellows to do it. Fellows, ’ ’ William added 


122 


Pratt Portraits. 


gloomily, “that have more to lose than some 
of us.” 

‘ ‘ Nobody could have much more to lose than 
you and I, Bill, with our wives and children.” 

William did not respond immediately, but then 
he was not a particularly responsive man. At 
last he said: “There’s one thing you and I 
would n’t have to leave behind to keep our wives 
and children company. ’ ’ 

“What ’s that?” 

“Beggary.” 

Again there was a long pause. 

“Well, Bill,” said Ben, at last, as he finished 
his cigar and turned to depart, “ I think you ’ve 
got hold of this thing by the wrong end, but your 
heart ’s all right, I ’ll be bound ! ” 

“ Rubbish ! ” William growled. “ Hearts 
don’t count. It ’s heads we want and they ’re 
mighty scarce just now.” 

But all this was only the prelude. Men talked, 
and argued, and discussed the war, and knew 
very little of what they were talking about. 
War is a grim word, but, after all, what is a word, 
even the grimmest ? 

The terrible awakening which swept over the 
land when the thunder of the first gun boomed 
across the waters in Charleston Harbor was almost 
as astounding, almost as appalling, as though 
the name of war had not been spoken till that 
day. It was on Saturday, the 13th of April, that 
the echoes of that gun reached the North. 


A Yankee Quixote, 


123 


William Pratt, driving into town across the 
long bridge, saw hundreds of flags floating over 
the city. Their brave colors fluttering on the 
breeze seemed to speak of cheerful things, and 
for a moment the weight of anxiety and fore- 
boding was lifted from his heart. But on the 
outskirts of the city he was undeceived. News- 
boys were bawling the bad tidings at the top of 
their voices, men were standing in knots talking 
vociferously, and gesticulating in a manner 
unusual in an American crowd. 

Pratt reined in his horse and bought a paper. 
He glanced at it, mechanically guiding his horse 
through the crowded streets. The headings were 
enough. 


“WAR BEGUN ! “ 


“ Thk South Strikes the First Beow ! ** 


“ FORT MOUETRIE OPENS FIRE ON FORT SUMTER 
AT FOUR O’CEOCK, FRIDAY MORNING.” 

He let the paper slip to his feet, and took a firm 
hold of the reins, to steady himself, not the horse. 

The air seemed full of flying flags. Their 
bright colors fluttered through his thoughts in 
a strange, bewildering way. All the world was 
talking and gesticulating. He did not want to 
talk, he did not want to hear what was said. 
He knew enough. Too much. It was the worst. 
Nothing could mitigate that. He turned his 


124 


Pratt Portraits, 


horse’s head away from the centre of the town, 
out toward the open country. 

For three days William Pratt bore himself like 
a man indifferent to the great events that mastered 
every heart. He lived apparently unmoved by 
the tremendous emotions that surged about him. 
His face was set and hard. His eye was dull. 
His neighbors, when they saw him pass, murmured 
to one another the fatal word, ‘ ‘ Secesh, ’ ’ fancying 
that they had the key to that stony indifference. 
And all the while his mind was in a tumult. 

It was an inner vision rather than a thought 
that occupied him. The singular, irresistible 
power of a symbol had laid hold upon him. It 
was not the country he thought of, not the cause. 
It was the flag, the Stars and Stripes, that he had 
loved unconsciously for forty years, that riveted 
his mind. He saw them floating over Fort Sum- 
ter, brave and proud as they had floated over the 
city when he drove across the bridge on that 
Saturday morning. He saw them lowered at the 
bidding of a hostile gun. 

For on Sunday news came of the surrender of 
the fort. The announcement was made from the 
pulpit. Strong men were shaken with sobs. 
Women’s faces blanched. A little child in the 
pew in front of him pulled at his father’s hand 
which hid his father’s face, saying : “ Don’t ee 
cry, Papa.” All day long that childish voice 
haunted William in meaningless reiteration. Yet 
he sat with tearless eyes and firm-set lips, seem- 


A Yankee Quixote, 125 

ingly shut out alike from the terror and the 
exaltation of the hour. 

When the service was ended, and he stepped 
out into the sunshine, his wife and children stayed 
behind while he walked home alone. 

On Tuesday William Pratt did a startlingly 
inconsistent thing. He deliberately enrolled his 
name among the defenders of that cause about 
which he had been so stubbornly sceptical. 

When he came home from the recruiting ojG&ce 
in the afternoon, he found his brother Ben sitting 
with his wife. It was just at dusk and the gas 
had not yet been lighted. William came in with 
a muttered greeting and took his seat in a large 
arm-chair where he leaned back heavily. 

“Well, Ben,” said he, “I ’m glad to find you 
here. I suppose you ’ll be surprised to know that 
I ’ve enlisted.” 

“Enlisted!” 

“ Enlisted ! ” 

Edna’s voice was sharp and high, Ben’s low 
with consternation. There was a dead silence 
before Ben spoke again with a somewhat 
unsteady accent. 

“Why, Bill,” he said, “I don’t understand. 
I thought you did n’t believe in the cause.” 

“You always sided with the South!” Edna 
urged, with feeble remonstrance. 

“ That was before they fired on the flag,” her 
husband answered, in a tone of voice that she had 
never heard before. 


126 


Pratt Portraits. 


Ben could not argue, but he plead, and Edna 
wept and lamented, and William sat there feeling 
as solitary in his newly awakened loyalty as he 
had found himself in the days of his heresy, till 
presently a slight figure in a bright plaid frock 
stole to his side, and a soft little hand was slipped 
within his own. It was his daughter Mary, who 
had sat by unobserved, and came to offer her mite 
of sympathy. He clasped the little hand tightly, 
and Mary sat on the arm of his chair all through 
the long discussion which followed. 

At last Ben left them, and Edna went to dry 
her tears in her own room, and when they were 
alone together Mary said, in a very solemn voice : 
“ Father, I wish I were a man so that I could go 
and fight for my country.” 

It had grown quite dark now. He put his 
arm about his little daughter and drew her down 
upon his knee, and then he said rather huskily : 
“ Praise God that you are not a man, Mary. You 
might have to die for your country.” 

“ I think that would be better than living,” she 
answered, with the simple, straightforward con- 
viction of a child. 

There was a strange, new ache in William 
Pratt’s heart, as he pressed the hot little cheek 
against his own. The flag no longer filled the 
whole horizon of his thoughts. 

Happily for him, there was too much business 
to be got through in the short interval before he 
should join his regiment in camp, to leave much 


A Yankee Quixote. 


127 


time for reflection or discussion. The flnal wind- 
ing up of his affairs had to be in a great measure 
entrusted to his brother Ben, and it was at this 
time that Ben flrst learned that William had not 
taken advantage of the rise in cotton for his own 
enrichment. Ben was an honest man, but this 
was beyond him. 

“ Quixotic ! ” he growled. “ Perfectly quixotic ! 
Bill,” he cried in desperation, you need a guar- 
dian.” 

“ Do I ? ” said William. 

They were standing over the safe in his office, 
and as William looked down upon his brother a 
faint gleam of amusement came into his grave 
eyes. He was taller by half a head than Ben, 
and though the difference in their age was not 
great, he looked much the elder. With his stem, 
mgged countenance and strong frame, he pre- 
sented a marked contrast to his blue-eyed, good- 
humored junior, whose short flgure was getting 
stout but would never be powerful. 

” Do I ? ” he asked again. 

“Yes, Bill ! you do ! First you throw away 
your luck and then you do your best to throw 
away your life. I’m blessed if I can see what 
right you have to cut into us all in this way, 
especially for a cause you never stood up for 
before.” 

“ Queer that I can’t make you understand,” 
said William, with a contraction of the brows, as 
though he were trying to think out some elabo- 


128 


Prati Poi^traits. 


rate explanation of a very simple problem. “ I 
suppose you can imagine the case of mother, for 
instance, getting into a difference of opinion with 
a neighbor, and your admitting that he was as 
much in the right as she. But if he were to lift 
his hand against her, I reckon you would n’t 
think twice before you knocked him down.” 

The trouble in Ben’s face deepened. The allu- 
sion to his mother only made things worse. The 
old lady had “plenty of grit,” but her eyes were 
so much brighter than usual when he called to 
see her that morning that he had felt anxious. 
She was an old woman and ought not to be called 
upon for the exercise of heroism. 

William himself was too preoccupied to be very 
much alive to other people’s feelings. Among all 
the confused experiences of that time of prepara- 
tion and departure there was only one moment 
that stood out clearly in his mind, that dwelt with 
him in the weeks that followed, when he lay awake 
under the stars in the home camp, and later when 
he came into close quarters with the realities of 
war. 

The apologetic embarrassment of his discom- 
fited accusers made very little impression upon 
him, while even as to his wife herself, he seemed 
to have forgotten just what she did and said at 
the last. He could recall hardly anything about 
his parting with his brothers and sisters. He re- 
membered the grip of the dry and wrinkled hand 
of age, when he kissed his mother, and that her 


A Yankee Quixote, 


129 


brave old lips trembled slightly as they touched 
his. But whether she had said the word good- 
bye or had failed to say it he did not know. 

In his breast pocket was a neat little pen- 
wiper, the covering worked in red, white, and 
blue worsteds in the shape of a flag, and in yellow 
silk were done “ all the stars for all the States,” 
little Mary had said when she gave it to him. 
“ And you must use it, Father, when you write to 
us, and when you bring it home again it will have 
come true, and all the States will be in the Union, 
just as they used to be.” 

He had taken the child’s face between his two 
large hands, and looked down with infinite wist- 
fulness into the clear young eyes. 

” Mary,” he had said, ” I wish you and I had 
known each other a little better.” 

“Never mind. Father,” the girlish treble 
sounded sweet and true as a bell. “When we 
meet again we shall be great friends.” 

Then he had kissed her forehead and held her 
very close, and she had stroked the front of his 
coat, the Union coat that he was to do his fighting 
in, until her mother came and claimed her right 
to weep upon his shoulder. 

He thought of his clear-eyed, high-hearted little 
daughter, as he sat among the men of his com- 
pany on the eve of the first great disaster of Bull 
Run and again as he went into action the next day. 

The bullet that pierced his heart passed first 
through the little worsted flag, but it left the field 
9 


130 


Pratt Portraits. 


of stars unbroken. And the little flag was buried 
with him in Southern soil, a mute and hidden 
witness to the better time to come. 

When that good time had come, when the 
humble testimony of those tiny golden stars had 
been fulfilled, the little Mary had grown to be a 
tall young woman, rather mature and thoughtful 
for her years. Many girlish fancies had passed 
away, many hard realities had come to take their 
place. But no ungentle years could rob her of 
her best heritage, her father’s memory, nor did 
she ever lose faith in her parting words to him : 
“When we meet again we shall be great friends.” 


VI. 

A NEW ENGLAND QUACK. 

“ A ND how ’s Anson gittin’ along?’’ asked 
/\ Miss Grig, the proprietor of the thread- 
^ and-needle store next door, as she payed 
for the new glass in her spectacles. 
“I ’ve hear’n tell ’s how he was makin’ quite a 
success of his doctorin’ . ’ ’ 

Mr. Bennett’s face dropped its business expres- 
sion and took on a genial look of complacence. 

“Oh, Anson! He ’s doin’ a great business. 
He ’s cuttin’ out the allopaths right an’ left. 
Reglars, they call themselves, and my wife says 
that ’s all right, for most on ’em ’s reglar old 
Betties I Why, Anson ’s got the best part of the 
practice in that country for miles round ! ’ ’ 

“Well ! It doos beat all, I must say, that a 
young man brought up to the spectacle trade 
should suddenly perk up and know so much ’bout 
folks’ insides. I s’ pose now, homepathic means 
home-made or somethin’ of the kind.” 

“Like ’s not,” replied the proud father. “I 
always said the doctors round here might learn a 
thing or two of Mis’ Bennett. She comes of an 
131 


132 


Pratt Portraits, 


oncommon smart family, the Pratts of Dunbridge, 
and she was about the smartest of the lot. It ’s 
been a real eddication to Anson to be the son of 
such a woman.” 

Then the worthy man grew more expansive, 
and leaning over the counter with a confidential 
air he added: “Do you know. Miss Grig — (I 
don’t want to brag, but this is betwixt you and 
me) — that boy ’s used up one hoss a’ ready ! ” 

A look of horror came into the excitable coun- 
tenance of Miss Grig. She gazed into Mr. 
Bennett’s face through her neatly repaired glasses 
and gasped : 

“What! pills!'' 

While Mr. Bennett was explaining to his old 
friend, that the “ hoss ” had been used up by too 
much travel on the long country roads, young 
Bennett was driving the first victim’s successor, 
at an easy pace along the Bast Burnham turn- 
pike. 

It was one of those soft days in early May, 
when the apple-blossoms are in their glory, and 
the balmy air quickens the heart with gladness. 
Anson Bennett’s heart was beating to the tune 
of hope and joy. He felt to his finger-tips, the 
delicious spring awakening, and pleasant thoughts 
sprang up in his mind, as naturally as early but- 
tercups from the sod. 

Now this young man, with his well-favored, not 
unintelligent face, and an air of candor and good- 
will which went far to win the country people’s 


A New England Quack. 133 

confidence, was nothing more nor less than an 
impostor. Yet impostor that he was, he was first 
of all his own dupe. Homoeopathy had but lately 
come into vogue, and the apparent simplicity of its 
principles had made it, or an unworthy travesty 
of it, instantly popular. Especially among New 
England housewives, who like to feel themselves 
equal to every emergency, the little wooden cases 
of bottles filled with palatable remedies for every 
ill, were welcome possessions. 

‘ ‘ Why, ’ ’ Anson’ s mother had said, “ it ’ s j ust 
like the way Luther gave the Bible to the people ! 
Think how long the priests had kept the religious 
doctorin’ all to themselves.” 

The good woman had an ill-defined notion that 
doctrine and doctorin’ had more similarity than 
that of mere sound. “I tell you, it ’s jest the 
same with the doctors. It ’s nothing but self- 
glorification that ’s always made ’em so secret 
about their learnin’. The Lord sets ’em a better 
example than that. The Lord promises to help 
folks that help themselves. But you ’d think, to 
hear the allopaths talk, that a woman was com- 
mitting some awful crime, when she gave a little 
nux vomica to a child that ’s got the snuffles, 
instead of running up a doctor’s bill and being 
made to torture the poor little thing with nasty- 
tasting drugs.” 

Jane Bennett was, as her simple-minded hus- 
band took pride in remembering, a Pratt of 
Dunbridge, and she had inherited something of 


134 


Pratt Portraits. 


the “faculty,” which has always distinguished 
that highly respectable family. 

Marrying at a very early age — in opposition, 
let it be whispered in confidence, to her mother’s 
wishes — and removing to the small manufacturing 
town where her husband pursued his calling, 
Jane Pratt had taken a step downward in the 
social scale. The ignorance which is the prerog- 
ative of sweet seventeen, had not been modified 
by contact with her betters, or even with her 
equals, and her self-confidence — sometimes called 
pigheadedness — had received no check. Hence 
she never suspected the undeniable fact that she 
was as ignorant of the true science of homoeopathy 
as she was of the higher mathematics. And in 
spite of ignorance and pigheadedness, Jane Ben- 
nett was very successful with her nux vomica and 
belladonna and what not, and she had little 
difiiculty in persuading her son of the soundness 
of her views. Anson had received much practical 
benefit from his mother’s treatment of the small 
ills which had assailed him from time to time ; her 
methods seemed to him rational, her arguments 
just. When she finally gave him a little manual 
of “symptoms,” and told him it would teach 
him homoeopathy, there appeared, to his mind, 
to be a great light thrown upon a hitherto dark 
and tortuous province of human experience. He 
was very young, very ignorant and very ambitious, 
and he was but too ready to believe that those 
little sugar-coated pills were the last and most 


A New England Quack, 135 


comprehensive outcome of medical science, and 
that he, with the aid of his manual, and a fair 
stock of natural “ gumption,” was as well fitted 
as another to administer them j udiciously . Bight 
months’ practice on whooping-cough and measles, 
in a healthy country neighborhood, had only 
confirmed him in his self-confidence, and he had 
almost come to feel as though it were his own 
diagnosis (a word, by the way, which he valued 
highly) which fixed the nature of the disease to 
be treated. 

He was now on his way to a patient — a me- 
chanic living on the outskirts of the neighboring 
town of East Burnham — whose case he had pro- 
nounced to be a severe catarrhal cold, and had 
for some days past been treating accordingly. 
His heart swelled within him as he thought of his 
past success and future prospects, and all his 
meditations were tinged with the spring sun- 
shine. 

“ What a heavenly-minded day this is,” he said 
to himself ; ‘ ‘ and how pleasant it is to be driv- 
ing along through this pretty country ! To think 
that I might have spent all my days behind 
Father’s counter, waiting on fussy old ladies, if I 
had n’t turned doctor ! ” 

His thoughts made a pause, while a picture 
rose before his mental vision. 

” I wonder if Alice would n’t like to be sitting 
side o’ me, and driving along among the apple- 
blossoms ! ’ ’ 


136 


Pratt Portraits. 


The young man glanced wistfully at the empty 
seat beside him, and then at the blossoming trees 
on either hand. 

“She ’d go well with the apple - blossoms. 
There ’s so much pink and white about her, and 
she ’s so sweet.” 

Then he fell into a wordless reverie, while his 
horse ambled lazily on. The dreamy stretches of 
pasture land, the soft spring air, and the fragrant 
apple-blossoms were all blended in his happy 
mood ; but the keynote of this delicate harmony 
was the pretty girlish face he looked upon with 
the “inward eye,” — ^pink and white and very 
sweet, but with a grace his fancy added, the 
grace of shy responsiveness. For the sweet face 
had not yet softened for him ; the clear eyes had 
not yet met his with answering affection. It was 
only that on such a day as this everything 
seemed possible to his young ambition. 

“ She ’s proud, and she has a good right to be,” 
he admitted to himself. “ ’T is n’t only that her 
father ’s so well off and has been in the legisla- 
ture. She ’d be just the same if her folks were 
nobodies. A girl like her,” he told himself to- 
day for the hundredth time, “could n’t be ex- 
pected to marry a man of no account. It stands 
to reason she ’d look high. But a doctor with 
such a practice as mine, is a different matter.” 

An attractive smile lit up his face. ‘ ‘ I know I 
could make her happy. There is n’t an5rthing I 
would n’t do for her. She should have as nice 


A New England Quack. 


137 


a house as any lady hereabouts, and lots of 
flowers in her garden. I s’pose she likes flow- 
ers. Seems as though a girl like her must feel 
sort of at home among them. I guess I ’ll 
send her a bunch next time I go home.” He 
looked again at the apple-trees, whose blossom- 
ing branches hung over the stone wall on either 
side of the road. 

“I’d like to send her a lot of apple-blossoms 
now,” he thought, “ but I s’pose that would n’t 
be much of a compliment ; they ’re so plenty. 
They do look just like her though.” 

A stray petal floated through the still air and 
dropped upon his knee. He picked it up and 
regarded it thoughtfully. 

“Pity so many of them come to nothing,” 
he mused. “ I wonder why things should be 
wasted so.” 

He often thought of the fragile waif, in after 
years, when he remembered that day of blos- 
soming of all sweet things in his own thoughts. 

Dr. Bennett stopped his horse before a bare- 
looking house, dropped the weight on the ground 
with a professional air, and taking his medicine 
case from the buggy, walked up the path. It 
was with difficulty that he pulled himself to- 
gether, and got himself back to real life. On 
the threshold he paused a moment and looked 
lingeringly upon the pleasant landscape, as 
though some subtle premonition had told him 
that he was turning his back for ever upon a 


138 Pratt Portraits, 

sweet spring world. Then he lifted the latch 
and entered into the chill shadow of sordid cares. 

A woman met him in the little dark entry- 
way. She was a young, timid-looking creature, 
and little children were clinging to her skirts. 
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unnaturally 
bright. Anson thought he had never before 
noticed how pretty she was, and, stooping to pat 
the cheek of one of the children, he said, 
cheerily : 

“Well, Mrs. KHery, I hope your husband is 
doing well to-day.” 

“ O Doctor ! ” she answered, in a voice that 
sounded strained and weak, “I was just going 
to send after you. He ’s been that bad all day, 
that I was afraid to wait till you ’d come.” 

A queer shock went through Anson, as he drew 
himself up and looked again into her face ; but 
he recovered himself instantly, and saying, 
“I’m sorry you ’ve been anxious, but I guess 
we shall have him all right again pretty soon, ’ ’ he 
passed into the sick-room with her. The children 
remained huddled together in the dark entry. 

The sick-room was on the north side of the 
house, and seemed chilly and comfortless. The 
patient lay with closed eyes on the bed. A 
strange, bluish pallor overspread his face, and 
he was breathing hard and painfully. Dr. Ben- 
nett took in his the hand that lay upon the calico 
counterpane. It was cold and clammy, and again 
that strange shock went through him. 


A New England Quack, 


139 


At his touch the patient opened his eyes feebly, 
and looked up at him. But he closed them 
again, muttering something which the doctor 
failed to catch. 

“I guess he ’s asking for Dr. Morse,” said 
the wife, whose cheeks were pale again. “ He ’s 
been asking for him all day, and I did n’t know 
what I ’d ought to do about it.” 

Dr. Morse, as Anson knew, was the family 
physician whom he had superseded. For a mo- 
ment the young doctor’s face looked hard and 
almost cruel. He had seated himself in the chair 
placed for him at the bedside, and was appar- 
ently absorbed in counting his patient’s pulse. 
It was but a faint fluttering of life beneath his 
finger, and he felt a sinking at the heart as he 
tried to put his mind upon the count. He had 
never lost but one patient, as he often reflected 
with pride, and that was an aged man. Sup- 
pose James Ellery should die. Was it his fault ? 
People must die, in spite of the doctors. It was 
only that this was almost his first fatal case, 
that it should take such hold of him. Yet, all 
the same, it was a sickening feeling to have a life 
which you were trying to hold slip from your 
grasp in this way. 

His touch upon the wrist must have tightened, 
for the patient moved uneasily, and tried to draw 
his hand away. Dr. Bennett looked at his watch. 
Nearly five minutes had passed, and yet he had 
not counted the feeble pulse. He released the 


140 Pratt Portraits, 

hand suddenly and turned to the woman standing 
beside him. 

‘ ‘ Do you want Dr. Morse ? ” he asked. 

“If you would n’t mind,” she said, hesitat- 
ingly. “ I think it would comfort James. He ’s 
been fretting about it all day.” 

“ I will go for him.” 

“ Oh, no ? Don’t leave him,'" she begged, with 
a frightened look towards the sick man. “I ’ll 
send Willie Anderson next door,” and she hur- 
ried from the room. 

“ I suppose that ’s always the way,” thought 
Anson, ratherly bitterly, yet trying to reassure 
himself by the reflection. ‘ ‘ They lay every 
thing to the doctor, and I suppose now they ’re 
sorry they ever left that old fogy, with his nasty 
drugs and his bloodlettings, and all his anti- 
quated notions. But he looked from time to time 
uneasily at his patient. 

It was a miserable situation, and every moment 
increased Anson’s perplexity and distress. He 
got up and paced the room — for Mrs. Ellery did 
not return — and tried to cast off the terrible 
weight of anxiety. Then he paused and looked 
again at the sufferer. It was no wonder that his 
heart was lead within him. He was standing 
face to face with death — not death as he had seen 
it, coming to release a pilgrim bowed down with 
years and infirmity, but death, summoning the 
soul of a man in the prime and vigor of life. He 
seemed to see the grim spectre defying him, and 


A New England Quack. 141 

he, who should have been armed to the teeth, 
stood weaponless, helpless as a child. A shuffling 
sound at the door startled him, and then he 
heard a childish voice whimpering — “ Muwer ! 
Muwer ! L^et me in ! ” 

He went and opened the door and said sternly : 
“ Your mother is n’t here. Go away ! ” and the 
little figure turned and fled from the strange 
man, in whose set face the child had not recog- 
nized the doctor. 

And still the mother did not return. She must 
have gone herself for Dr. Morse. Anson paced 
the room in growing anguish of spirit. It seemed 
like a horrible nightmare, and he flung his head 
back violently to wake himself Yet he knew, 
with an insistent, grinding knowledge, that it 
was a nightmare from which there would be no 
awakening. 

In after years when he looked back upon that 
day, one consolation remained to him in his 
shame and self-abasement. He had not carried 
on the pitiful farce a moment after it was revealed 
to him in its true light. Though his mind was 
not prompt to accept the bitter truth of his in- 
competency, a deeper consciousness of it was so 
borne in upon him, that he offered no remedy — 
gave no advice. From the moment when his fin- 
ger touched the vanishing pulse, he ceased to act 
his miserable part. His feeble pleas for himself, 
his fretful accusations of others, were but surface 
disturbances. 


142 


Pratt Portram- 


As he sat beside his patient in the gathering 
twilight, listening to his labored breathing and 
feeble moanings, he looked upon the dying man 
with a passion of envy stronger, even, than his 
remorse. To die ! To die ! To escape from a 
life, maimed, ruined, as his own must be, if this 
were indeed no nightmare, but an inexorable 
fate. 

There was a sudden sound of steps in the pas- 
sage-way, and the door opened softly. A light 
streamed in from the lamp which Mrs. Kllery held 
in her hand, and at first Anson saw only her 
frightened face. But there, in the shadow, was 
the short, sturdy figure of Dr. Morse, the despised 
rival of the successful young practitioner. While 
Mrs. Bllery explained, in a hurried whisper, that 
she had not found Willie Anderson, and had her- 
self been searching through the town for Dr. 
Morse, the latter stepped to the bedside, and 
made a hasty examination of the patient. He 
shook his head and Anson fancied that he heard 
the words — “ Too late.” 

A baby’s wail from the kitchen broke rudely 
upon the solemn hush, a door was opened, and 
the sound of fretful voices approached. Dr. Ben- 
nett stood an instant irresolute. Then he said, in 
a dry, hard voice ; “ I will go and quiet the chil- 
dren. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, if you would ! ” said Mrs. Kllery, grate- 
fully ; and Anson left the room, accepting it as 
his dismissal. 


A Nezv England Quack. 143 

He went into the kitchen and humbly did his 
best to pacify the peevish, hungry little people 
who were quarrelling in the dark. He lit a lamp 
and got them some gingerbread from a high shelf 
in the cupboard, and presently they were stand- 
ing around his chair, five little eager listeners, 
while he told them the story of Jack the Giant 
Killer. Curiously enough, he became so absorbed 
in the old tale, that he succeeded in detaching 
his mind, for the moment, from all that was real 
and painful, and, finding an unspeakable relief in 
this momentary oblivion, he continued his story- 
telling, relating, with a feverish earnestness and 
rapidity, the adventures of one after another of 
the nursery heroes. 

An hour or more had passed thus, when sud- 
denly a heavy step just outside the door smote 
upon his consciousness like a blow, and he stood 
up to meet his accuser. 

Dr. Morse opened the door, and said, in a voice 
that sounded very much like a command : “I 
should be glad to have a talk with you. Dr. Ben- 
nett. Suppose we step out-of-doors. ’ 

Bennett pushed the children rather roughly 
aside, and followed his summons. The stars were 
out, and the evening air was sweet with the fra- 
grance of apple-blossoms. As he stepped off the 
low, flat door stone, Anson felt a sudden giddiness, 
and faltered in his gait. But the voice of Dr. Morse 
steadied him. 

“Your patient is dead,” he said, harshly. 


144 


Pratt Portraits. 


“ There ’s a neighbor woman in there with Mrs. 
Kllery.” 

They walked down the little path and back 
again. 

‘ ‘ I thought I should like to know what your 
treatment of pneumonia is.” 

“Pneumonia!” exclaimed Anson, involun- 
tarily. 

“Yes, pneumonia. I assume that you con- 
cealed the nature of the disease out of considera- 
tion for Mrs. Ellery. You did not, of course, 
blunder in the diagnosis of so plain a case.” 

Anson made no reply. 

‘ ‘ How long has your patient been ill ? ” 

There was a sarcastic emphasis on the words 
“your patient ” as often as the doctor spoke them. 

“ I was first called last Monday.” 

“ H’m I Did he seem pretty sick then ? ” 

“ No. He only seemed to have a violent cold. 
He was feverish and coughed a good deal, and he 
complained of a pain in his side. But that went 
off after three days. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How was his pulse ? ” 

“ Rapid, but pretty strong.” 

‘ ‘ And his respiration ? ” 

“ He seemed to breathe easily;” 

The elder man’s lip curled scornfully. They 
were still pacing up and down the path to the 
front door. 

“ Eet us step outside the gate,” said Anson, 
“ where we sha’n’t have to turn so often.” 


A New Englmid Quack. 145 

As they opened the gate, Anson’s horse turned 
his head toward his master and whinnied softly. 
It was singularly comforting. The horse, at 
least, believed in him, and looked to him for 
release. 

“ I suppose you know that the respiration must 
be closely watched. It ’s a pity you can’t speak 
more positively about it.” 

A feeling of irritation came over Anson. He 
resented being catechised, and resentment was a 
relief. 

” I don’t know what you could do about it 
now, ’ ’ he said, ” if I chose to tell you. ’ ’ 

” Oh ! then you kept yourself informed. That 
is well. What stimulant did you give him ? ’ ’ 

Here Anson seemed to feel the ground under 
his feet once more, and he said with decision : 
‘ ‘ Our school does not believe in stimulants. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And nourishment ? ’ ’ asked the doctor. 

‘ ‘ He was too feverish to be given much nour- 
ishment. ’ ’ 

” Too feverish for nourishment, and his pulse 
sinking to nothing ! Good heavens, man, you 
don’t know what you are talking about ! ” 

Again there was a feeble flutter of self-assertion 
in Anson’s harassed mind, and he answered, 
with a last attempt at dignity : 

“You must remember. Dr. Morse, that you 
and I belong to different schools of medicine.” 

Here the doctor’s patience gave out, and his 
wrath broke loose — 


146 


Pratt Portraits. 


“Different schools!” he cried. “Different 
schools I You ’re talking arrant bosh I Your 
sort don’t belong to any school under heaven. 
The Tord knows there ’s no love lost betwixt me 
and the homoeopaths. They ’re a wrong-headed 
lot, and I should like to see the whole wretched 
fallacy uprooted and cast to the winds. But there 
are scientific men among them, who are neither 
knaves nor fools, and I won’t have any body of 
scientific men insulted. Such men as you are the 
curse of any school — it is such men as you who 
have brought it into disrepute — it is such men as 
you ” 

“ For God’s sake, stop 1 ” 

The doctor turned, suddenly ashamed of his 
torrent of words, and looked at Anson, who had 
stopped in his walk, and stood clutching a 
thin rail fence, which creaked and wavered in his 
grasp. In the dim starlight his face looked drawn 
and deathly white. 

‘ ‘ Do you feel ill ? ” asked the doctor. 

“ Yes, mortally ill,” said Anson, with a harsh 
laugh. “ If you had a pistol about you, I think 
I could cure my own case quicker than you 
could. ’ ’ 

“Here, take my arm — I ’m afraid I was a 
brute.” 

“ We ’re all brutes together,” said Anson. “ I 
don’t want your arm. It is n’t my body that 
you ’ve butchered,” and he walked toward his 
buggy and began fumbling with the hitching 


A New England Quack, 147 

rein. The doctor watched him uneasily, but did 
not venture to help him. When he had un- 
fastened the rein, Anson lifted the weight a few 
inches, but dropped it again, and left it lying 
on the ground. As he got into the buggy 
he reeled slightly, and the doctor took a step for- 
ward. But he recovered himself without help, 
and when he was seated, he gathered up the reins 
and drove rapidly away. Dr. Morse stood look- 
ing after the black buggy top, as it disappeared 
in the darkness, and listening to the sound of the 
receding wheels. 

‘ ‘ Who could have supposed that a quack had 
a conscience,” he muttered, as he turned on his 
heel and walked back to the desolate little house. 

Anson Bennett had gone down into a blackness 
of darkness infinitely more terrible than anything 
the good doctor conceived of. 

One pleasant evening four days later, Dr. Morse 
sat in his office enjoying an hour of hard-earned 
leisure. The office was a plain, uninviting room, 
with oil-cloth on the floor, shabby old furniture, 
and an unsightly hole under the mantlepiece, 
where a stove-pipe did duty in winter time. But 
the doctor loved the place, and was never so com- 
fortable as when sitting, as now, in his revolving- 
chair, surrounded by his well-worn books and 
dusty bottles, smoking the second half of a cigar. 
He smoked very slowly, waiting, after each whiff, 
to watch the blue incense curl and wind in a 
vanishing spiral. 


148 


Pratt Portraits. 


To-night he was taking his pleasure more 
slowly and thoughtfully, if possible, than was his 
wont. In fact, he once let his cigar go out en- 
tirely, a thing which he prided himself upon just 
avoiding, in his skilful prolongation of the indul- 
gence. He was ruminating upon Mrs. BUery 
and her perplexities, which occupied his mind as 
often as it was free from immediate demands. 
Between whiles he permitted himself an occa- 
sional fling of scorn at that “miserable young 
quack. ’ ’ When the cigar had been long enough 
extinguished for the smoke to have yielded to 
the perfume of the blossoms which floated in at 
the open window, the delicate odor recalled so 
vividly the circumstances of his talk with Ben- 
nett, that he felt a return of that compunction and 
soft-heartedness which he had come to regret, 
and he hastily struck a match and relighted his 
cigar. 

Presently there was a step on the gravel walk, 
and, looking up, the doctor saw the object of his 
indignation approach his door. As the young 
man entered. Dr. Morse rose with conflicting feel- 
ings. He did not immediately offer his hand, 
and when he did so Bennett had seen his hesita- 
tion and withheld his own. 

“You need n’t mind about shaking hands,” 
he said, with a touch of dignity which seemed 
scarcely compatible with the situation as the doc- 
tor looked at it. “I have n’t come to you on my 
own account, and I won’t trouble you for long.” 


A New England Quack, 


149 


The two men sat down and were silent for a 
moment. The cigar had again gone out, and the 
scent of the blossoms filled the room. The voices 
of the doctor’s wife and daughters came in at the 
open window, and made upon Bennett an inde- 
scribable impression of home and comfort. This 
was what he had looked forward to. Honor and 
love and a happy home. And the short-lived 
blossoms whose sweetness had mingled with his 
dream, had not yet passed away ! But the doctor 
was waiting for him to speak. 

“ Dr. Morse,” he began, “ you will not be sur- 
prised to hear that I have given up doctoring, 
and you will, of course, understand that the only 
wish which I can have, or at least which I have 
any right to have, is to make what reparation I 
can to the family of my unhappy patient.” 

The doctor was not only surprised, but fairly 
taken aback by this speech. He repeated the 
young man’s word mechanically. 

” Reparation. Yes, of course, of course. Quite 
natural.” 

But his mind was undergoing another awkward 
change of attitude toward quacks. 

‘ ‘ You would have heard from me before this, ’ ’ 
Bennett continued, “ but I thought it best not to 
trouble you until the matter was settled. I have 
been home and talked things over with my poor 
father. It comes hard on him, but he looks at 
it as I do, and he will take me back into 
business. ’ ’ 


Pratt Portraits, 


150 


“ What ’s your business ? ” asked the doctor. 

“ We are opticians.” 

“ H’m ! Do you like the trade ? ” 

I don’t know what that has to do with the 
question. We ’re in it, and it gives us a fair 
living. What I have come to ask about is Mrs. 
Ellery. I shall, of course, consider myself re- 
sponsible for the support of the family, and I 
want you to act for me in the matter. I have 
inquired about her husband’s earnings, and I 
think I can spare very nearly that income from 
the beginning. Your part would be to invent 
some reason for her receiving it without betray- 
ing me. I ’m afraid she would n’t take the 
money if she knew all. Do you think you could 
arrange this ? ’ ’ 

“ Easily enough,” said the doctor. He exam- 
ined his small fraction of a cigar with much 
apparent interest, and then he added : “I sup- 
pose Mrs. Ellery has a mind, but I have never 
known her to use it. She would believe that the 
ravens were feeding her if I told her so. ’ ’ 

Anson was about to make some reply when the 
doctor asked, abruptly : ‘ ‘ How long do you pro- 
pose to keep it up ? ” 

” How long ? Always, I suppose.” 

” And when you are married and have a family 
of your own to provide for ? ” 

” I, married ? I shall never marry.” 

” Oh ! You can’t be so sure of that at your 
age.” 


A New England Quack, 


151 


I tell you I shall never marry.” 

Have you never wished to ? ” 

Anson sprang impatiently from his seat and 
strode to the window. 

“ I wish you ’d quit your probing, Dr. Morse. 
I did n’t come to talk about myself.” 

Dr. Morse rose, more deliberately, and followed 
him to the wftdow, where the light was still 
clear. Bennett’s face was under better control 
than his voice, but there was a change in it which 
the doctor recognized as permanent. A great 
wave of respect and compassion went through 
him. 

“Young man,” he said, in an altered voice, “ I 
should feel it an honor if you would shake hands 
with me. ’ ’ 

Flushing like a boy, Anson turned and looked 
into the homely face. The two men clasped one 
another’s hands. 

The next day Anson sat once more in his fa- 
ther’s shop, plying with skilled fingers the handi- 
work to which he had been trained. Preoccupied 
as he was with bitter reflections, he was yet not 
wholly without consolation. His father’s wel- 
come was something. Mr. Bennett, garrulous in 
time of triumph, had few words on this occasion. 
When they entered the shop together on that first 
morning, he only said : “It seems real good to 
have you back, Anson. I ’ve missed you con- 
siderable,” but Anson felt the grip of the kind 
hand all day long, and often, in the days to come, 


152 


Pratt Portraits, 


he seemed to feel again that friendly pressure. 
In the practice, too, of his trade was unlooked-for 
solace. The sense of mastery was peculiarly 
soothing to his wounded self-esteem, and it was 
then that he realized for the first time the satis- 
faction of being an expert. Had it not been for 
the frequent calls to the counter he might almost 
have lost himself in his occupatftn. 

For the first few days after his return it was 
surprising how fast the Bennett custom increased. 
One after another of the neighbors came in with 
spectacles in need of repair, tmtil Anson sus- 
pected them of ransacking their garrets in search 
of discarded glasses, merely for the sake of hav- 
ing a talk over the counter. 

Among the first to appear was Miss Grig, 
with a pair of “ specs ” belonging to her mother, 
which seemed “kind o’ loose in the jints.” 
Would Anson “jest see ’f he could n’t tighten 
’em up a bit ? ” 

Anson had begun to feel the grim humor of 
the thing, and he made a pretence of tinkering 
the glasses a little before returning them. 

“Thank ’ee,” said Miss Grig, as she took 
them. “How much will that be?” 

“Nothing at all, Miss Grig. It is n’t worth 
mentioning.” 

“Very much obligated, I am sure,” said the 
old lady, evidently relieved. She had rather 
begrudged the price of her curiosity. 

“We ’re all so glad to see you back, Anson,” 


A New England Quack. 


153 


she went on, with a comical accession of interest. 
‘'It seems so nat’ral to see you standin’ there 
behind the counter. Only it ’pears to me you 
ain’t lookin’ quite so hearty as you was. Maybe 
you found doctorin’ did n’t agree with you. ’T 
was too confinin’, ’praps.” 

Miss Grig looked at him with her head a lit- 
tle on one side, like a bright-eyed, inquisitive 
cock-sparrow. 

‘‘No, it was n’t exactly that,” Anson replied, 
with an assumption of indifference. ‘ ‘ The fact 
is, Miss Grig, I had come to the conclusion that 
I did n’t know enough for doctoring.” 

‘ ‘ Now do tell. And we all heard you was so 
successful and hed sech a great practice. Why, 
your Pa told me ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, yes! I know! Father was all right 
about that. I had plenty of patients. But I 
found it was a bigger subject than I thought 
for, and I was afraid I might be making mistakes 
and doing mischief if anything unusual turned 
up.” 

“An’ I s’ pose that idee was wearin’ on you. 
Well, I don’t know ’s I wonder. The allopaths, 
now, do have a sight o’ lamin’. My second 
cousin on my mother’s side is bringin’ up her son 
for a doctor, and there don’t seem to be no end to 
the trouble and expense. But I s’ posed ’t was 
different with the homepaths. Them little pills 
seem so easy given and so easy took. An’ if 
they don’t do no good, I don’t see ’s they can 


154 


Pratt Portraits, 


do much harm any way. You did n’t happen to 
ketch yourself givin’ the wrong kind now, did 
you?” 

At this juncture another customer came in and 
the small inquisition ceased, only to recommence 
in another form. Happily not many of his exam- 
iners were as searching in their methods as Miss 
Grig, and Anson rarely found himself cornered. 
By and by, too, the little flurry of curiosity 
subsided, and it was not long before the neigh- 
bors had almost forgotten how ‘ ‘ Dr. Bennett ’ ’ 
came by his title. To this, however, they clung 
with a tenacity which it was useless to combat. 
How he hated it ! He used at first to feel as 
though his friends were jeering at him when they 
called him ‘ ‘ doctor, ’ ’ and even in after years the 
long-accustomed title would sometimes bring a 
hot flush to his face. 

Several years went by before pretty Alice Ives 
was married, and then it was that Anson allowed 
himself the one extravagance of his life. He 
went to the city and bought a water-color, for 
which he paid more than he would have been 
willing to admit. The picture was not much ap- 
preciated in the community, but Alice liked it. 
A branch of apple-blossoms against a pale blue 
sky. So exquisitely were they painted that even 
the cavillers owned that you could almost smell 
them, but “ after all,” they added, ” it was noth- 
ing but a picture of apple-blossoms, just like 
what anybody could see every spring, and you 


A New England Quack. 1 5 5 

would think it would be no great matter to paint 
a thing like that.” 

Alice was so touched and pleased with the 
charming gift that she came over herself that 
same day after tea to thank Anson. It was June, 
and she found him working in his garden. She 
stepped lightly down the garden walk, clad in a 
flowered muslin, with a broad leghorn hat pushed 
back from her face. Anson did not see her com- 
ing. He was on his knees, weeding the border. 
Alice stood for a moment, watching him, and a 
wistful look came into her dark-blue eyes. Some- 
how he looked so poor in his old clothes and so 
lonesome, so different from the Anson of a few 
years ago. There he knelt, pulling up the ugly 
weeds, and tossing them into a basket that stood 
beside him. She wished, vaguely, that he had 
been planting something. The sight of him gave 
her a heartache that she longed to ease. If she 
could only give him some little thing, just some- 
thing bright and sweet from her own abundance. 
She reached out her hand and plucked a spray of 
laburnum that grew beside the path. Yet no. It 
would be foolish to give him a flower out of his 
own garden, and she hastily tucked it into her 
bodice. Anson heard the sudden movement, and, 
turning, saw her standing there in the slanting 
sunlight. He got up and brushed the earth from 
his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, which he 
threw far away from him as Alice came toward 
him with outstretched hands. 


Pratt Portraits, 


156 

“ O Anson ! ” she cried, and in her voice there 
was a something that neither of them understood, 
a stray note of feeling which it was perhaps as 
well they should not understand. ‘ ‘ O Anson ! 
it is the loveliest of all my presents. How came 
you to think of giving me such a beautiful 
thing?” 

“ It came very natural,” he answered, with an 
odd smile, as he took her hand in both his and 
looked down into the fair young face. “You 
always make me think of apple-blossoms, Alice. ’ ’ 


VII. 


A NEW ENGLAND CONSCIENCE. 

SKQUKI. TO “a new ENGLAND QUACK.” 

T here is a certain class of men who look 
like landmarks. No matter how slight 
may be their social importance, no matter 
how humble a part they may play in the 
active life of their town, they become identified 
with it. They are not necessarily men of marked 
appearance. It is only that a sight of one of 
them turning the key in his shop-door of an 
evening, or lingering about the church-porch 
after service, conveys a feeling of satisfaction. 
One’s sense of the fitness of things is gratified, 
and one would rather see the bent figure and 
time-worn features than not. 

Dr. Bennett belonged to this class of men. No 
more imobtrusive figure than his existed in the 
little manufacturing town of Westville. No citi- 
zen of the town went his ways more quietly than 
he. Yet his tg,ll, stooping figure, his thin gray 
hair, his neat, threadbare coat, were clearly indige- 
nous to the soil. His little shop, where he dealt in 


157 


Pratt Portraits, 


158 

spectacles, magnifying-glasses, and kindred aids 
to vision, was as much a part of the landscape as 
the factory chimneys a few blocks away, or the 
ancient meeting-house round the corner. It had 
always been there, and as far as most people took 
the trouble to remember, it had always been pre- 
sided over by Dr. Bennett. 

His title was another thing about him which 
seemed an essential part of his personality, re- 
quiring no explanation. The fact that an opti- 
cian is not usually called ‘ ‘ doctor, ’ ’ rarely oc- 
curred to any one. There was no more curiosity 
about Dr. Bennett and his title than there was 
about the house he lived in, and the inappropriate 
cupola which perched on the gable-roof like a 
heavy barnyard fowl on a dove-cote. The cupola 
had emanated from the brain of Mrs. Henry Ben- 
nett, Dr. Bennett’s mother, and if the truth were 
known, Anson Bennett’s unearned title was also 
the outcome of that active-minded woman’s am- 
bition. It was she who had pushed her son into 
the practice of what she was pleased to call 
homoeopathy, it was she who had watched with 
swelling pride and self-satisfaction his brilliant 
career, it was she who had never become recon- 
ciled to its abrupt close at the end of one winter’s 
trial. 

Something had happened, twenty-five years 
ago, to check the brilliant career of this only son, 
and he, who had formerly been so pliable in his 
mother’s hands, had returned from the field of 


A New England Conscience, 1 59 

his country practice, a changed man. Something 
had happened to dash his youthful spirits, to kill 
his ambition, yet at the same time to harden and 
fix his character in new lines. It was not an un- 
happy love affair. None knew better than Jane 
Bennett that there was but one girl whom Anson 
had ever given a thought to, and she believed 
that that girl, the pretty Alice Ives, might have 
been his for the asking, long before she ever 
thought of marrying George J'itcomb and going 
to live in Boston. No, if his love affair had ended 
disastrously, Anson had no one to thank for it 
but himself. Yet as he had deserted his new 
career in the full tide of success, Mrs. Bennett 
naturally found it impossible to credit his unvar- 
nished statement that he had “made a botch of 
doctoring,” and for that reason had come back to 
his old home and to his father’s counter. 

“You need n’t talk to me,” she had said over 
and over again to her meek good-humored spouse. 
“You need n’t talk to me about Anson’s not be- 
ing a good doctor. ’T ain’t likely he’d ha’ made 
such a success of it if he had n’t had the faculty. 
Why ! Deacon Osgood says that his cousin on 
his mother’s side, who lives jest onto’ East Bum- 
ham, says they never was a doctor in those parts 
that everybody set such store by as Anson. That 
old fogy Dr. Morse had n’t any show at all, long ’s 
Anson stayed tjjere. There ’s something more at 
the bottom of it, you may depend upon it. I 
declare to goodness ! when I see Anson moping 


i6o 


Pratt Portraits. 


round and sticking it out in that close-mouthed 
way, I Ve half a mind to give him a good shak- 
ing ! ” 

“ I wish you would !” Henry Bennett would 
answer, with suppressed amusement, “ I should 
jest like to see you ! ” 

' The idea of her husband’s making a joke at 
her expense would not have found easy entrance 
into Jane Bennett’s mind. She never dreamed 
that, as he made this harmless remark, he was 
conjuring up a picture of the scene. She was a 
small woman, to be sure, and her son, in those 
early days, was a tall, muscular man. But so 
strong was her sense of maternal authority that 
no exercise of it seemed incongruous. Had she 
suspected that her mild-visaged husband, whom 
she had always domineered over, and conse- 
quently looked down upon, knew the whole story 
of his son’s misadventure, her indignation would 
have known no bounds. It was well for the 
peace of all concerned that no such suspicion 
ever crossed her mind. 

Meanwhile a quarter of a century had passed 
over Jane Bennett, and the disappointment of her 
life. Kind deprecatory Henry Bennett, had long 
since received his last conjugal snub, had long 
since had his last sly chuckle at his wife’s ex- 
pense, and very quietly, as was his nature, he had 
slipped out of the matrimonial bonds, by the only 
loophole of escape open to such as he. 

At the end of that quarter of a century, Jane 


A New England Conscience, 1 6 1 

Bennett’s figure was as alert and as wiry as ever ; 
her hair was as black, her glance as sharp. 
Time’s chisel had not been keen enough to do 
much execution on that resolute countenance. 
All the deeper had been its marks upon her son’s 
face. At the age of fifty, Anson Bennett looked 
older, duller, wearier than his mother. 

This especially when his face was in repose, as 
was usually the case, and never more so than 
when undergoing a remonstrance from his mother. 

They were sitting together at dinner one Sun- 
day noon in November. Mrs. Bennett behind 
her cold joint, looking precisely as Anson remem- 
bered her from his earliest childhood. Not that 
the fashion of her dress or of her surroundings 
had remained unchanged. Mrs. Bennett prided 
herself not a little upon her modishness. A plain 
white china service had, in accordance with the 
fashion of the day, superseded the old blue stone- 
ware, which, with its Dutch canal views and incon- 
sequent minarets, had been the delight of Anson’s 
childhood ; an elaborate plated-silver caster 
adorned the middle of the table ; while on the 
wall opposite him a many-hued chromo had 
taken the place of the two cheap companion 
prints once dear to his heart. Yet amid all these 
changes his mother’s face seemed to him quite 
unaltered, and the voice in which she did her 
fault-finding was the same voice at whose sound 
he had trembled before he learned to recognize 
any higher authority than that of its owner. 


i 62 


Pratt Portraits, 


“I must say, Anson,” said the sharp voice, 
* ” I must say that I was mortified to see you 

(f going to church this morning in your old winter 
overcoat. When I ’ve been at you for a month o’ 
Sundays about getting a new one. Why on earth 
do you keep putting it off ? ” 

“I don’t want a new overcoat,” said Anson, 
quietly. 

“You don’t want a new overcoat? Well, 
you ’d ought to be ashamed of yourself if you 
don’t. That ’s all I can say. They was n’t a 
man in the middle aisle that looked as shabby as 
you did. If I was you I ’d try and scare up a 
little self-respect jest for the sake of appear- 
ances. ’ ’ 

“ The overcoat ’s as warm as it ever was,” said 
Anson, slowly and stubbornly. ‘ ‘ And what I 
want an overcoat for is warmth. When I begin 
to feel cold in it I ’ll get another.” 

“ Yes ! and till it lets the wind through, you ’ll 
go about looking like what folks call you — an old 
miser ! ” 

Jane Bennett shot a sidewise glance at her son, 
to note the effect of the word. To her chagrin it 
had apparently no effect whatever. Dr. Bennett 
ate his dinner with unimpaired relish, and looked 
ready for a change of subject. The son sat at the 
side of the table, and not opposite his mother, as 
would have seemed natural. It was characteris- 
tic of Anson, though few credited him with the 
finer sensibilities, that he never had been able to 


A New England Conscience. 163 

overcome his reluctance to taking his father’s seat 
at table. He had at first feared to hurt his moth- 
er’s feelings by so doing, and when at last it 
dawned upon him that his father’s widow was not 
sensitive in such matters, a new compunction and 
loyalty took possession of him, and from that time 
forward he guarded the old man’s memory with 
jealous tenderness. 

To-day, as his mother chid him, for she did 
not let the subject rest there, his mind wandered, 
as it often did, to the kind old man whose plain 
sense of duty had sustained him when duty was 
not easy. In a flash of memory he beheld the 
changes which had passed over his father’s face 
when he had come to him in the crisis of his life. 
The incredulity, and then the pain, with which 
the elder man had listened as his son told him 
how, in his ignorance and presumption, he had 
undoubtedly caused the death of a patient ; the 
relief with which his listener learned that he 
should give up the practice of medicine, though 
in so doing he was giving up a distinction which 
had been the pride of Henry Bennett’s heart. 
Best of all, the glow of approval in the homely 
old face, the quick tears in the kind eyes, when 
Anson declared his intention of undertaking the 
support of this same James Ellery’s family. 

But while all this passed in Anson Bennett’s 
mind his face wore the look his mother best knew 
— a look of quiet obstinacy — a look which exas- 
perated her. And it came to pass, as it often did 


164 


Pratt Portraits. 


in their one-sided discussions, that Jane Bennett’s 
wish to carry her point was overborne by a desire 
to punish her son. As she gave him a second 
“help” of boiled potatoes, she asked, with ap- 
parent irrelevancy : 

“ Did you see Alice Ives that was ? She was 
sitting in her Pa’s pew, dressed up real stylish 
and becomin’. I thought when I saw her look- 
ing at you across the aisle that she must be glad 
enough that she ’d had the sense to marry a man 
that was free with his money. ’ ’ 

“ No, I did n’t see Alice,” said Anson, calmly. 
He did not flush nor wince, nor did his voice 
betray any emotion. Yet a change went over his 
countenance, something like the change which 
goes over a dull landscape when the long after- 
noon light begins to brood. 

“I ’m glad Alice is so well off,” he added, 
presently. “ I'hey say she ’s got two little girls 
as pretty as she used to be.” 

“ She ’s jest as pretty as ever she was,” said 
his mother, sharply. “ I do hope to goodness,” 
she added, ‘ ‘ that you wont go to see her in that 
old overcoat. She ’s going away to-morrow.” 

“ I don’t know ’s I shall go to see her at all,” 
he answered. “ At any rate, I ’m going over to 
East Burnham this afternoon to see Dr. Morse. ’ ’ 
Poor Jane Bennett had got the worst of it, as 
she often did nowadays. Dr. Morse was her bug- 
bear. Without ever having seen that excellent 
man, she had conceived an aversion to him which 


A New England Conscience, 165 

was perhaps not without foundation. In the first 
place, he was an “allopath,” and although her 
son had kept his allegiance to homoeopathy, main- 
taining that he had “made a botch of doctoring ” 
only because he was totally ignorant of the whole 
subject of medicine, although she could not ac- 
cuse Dr. Morse of having converted her son to his 
own views, yet she knew by intuition that he had 
in some way been instrumental in the downfall of 
her ambition. Furthermore, the fact that the 
only indulgence Anson ever permitted himself 
was an occasional visit to the doctor at Hast 
Burnham, was in itself enough to excite her jeal- 
ousy. What had this old fogy to do with her 
boy ? what attraction could he have to offer ? At 
first she had fancied there might be a daughter in 
the case ; that perhaps Anson, faithless to his 
first love, had lost his heart to one of the Miss 
Morses ; that he had relinquished doctoring to 
please the old man. But all her speculations had 
come to nought, and now she had nothing more 
definite in support of her aversion than the same 
instinctive distrust which she had always cher- 
ished. And so it happened that when Anson 
said he was going to East Burnham his mother 
felt peculiarly frustrated, and she wondered in her 
heart what she had ever done to deserve so un- 
dutiful a son. It was true that he had always 
treated her with scrupulous justice, that she en- 
joyed her fair share of his business profits, that 
with all his alleged miserliness he paid his board 


Pratt Portraits. 


1 66 

regularly, that he never spoke a disrespectful 
word to her, but all this had little weight. Jane 
Bennett took her blessings for granted. Her mind 
dwelt by preference upon her small vexations. 

Yet if she had her faults, and no one could deny 
them, the poor woman endured her full measure 
of punishment. Faults of disposition are not as 
grave as many of those to which human nature is 
heir, but they bring their own retribution. And 
while Jane Bennett alienated her son’s affection 
by a course of steady opposition, of daily bicker- 
ing, yet there was nothing which she craved as 
she did that very filial love which got no chance 
to blossom. 

Perhaps she was in reality more sinned against 
than sinning. Certainly, when Anson, twenty- 
five years previous, had refrained from telling her 
the true story of the disaster which had fallen 
upon him, he had done her a cruel injustice. The 
fact, too, that her husband had had no impulse to 
take her into his confidence showed that he also 
misjudged her. In spite of her narrow-minded- 
ness, her self-conceit, her ill-temper, Jane Bennett 
had very strict ideas of right and wrong. If she 
once had been convinced that Anson had com- 
mitted a wrong, even at her own instigation, she 
would have been eager to see the wrong atoned 
for. As it was, she lived in a tangle of vexations, 
to which she had no clue. How could she know 
that her son’s life was one long expiation ? How 
could she divine that he wore his shabby old 


A JVeia England Conscience. 167 

clothes and walked in a narrow, monotonous path 
in order that he might fulfil what he felt to be a 
sacred duty ? I^iving herself in a state of chronic 
disappointment and chagrin, she badgered her 
son into a dull indifference, and underneath her 
apparent self-confidence was a mortifying and 
wounding conviction that he did not love her. 

When Anson returned from East Burnham 
that same evening, he did not go directly home. 
He went to his shop instead, closed the door be- 
hind him, lighted the gas, and fell to tinkering a 
pair of glasses that had been left with him for 
repairs. It was not the first time that he had 
sought refuge from unruly emotions in the exer- 
cise of his prosaic calling, but it was the first time 
that he had done so of a Sunday evening. He 
reflected, however, that his grandmother. Old 
Lady Pratt, always kept her Sabbath from sun- 
down to sundown, and that what was a principle 
with her could not be a crime in her grandson. 
And so he worked away as industriously as 
though his daily bread had depended upon the 
immediate completion of that small job. 

Meanwhile his face looked younger, happier, 
more animated, than it had looked for years, and 
no one seeing it would have guessed the nature 
of the errand from which he had just returned. 
He had gone that afternoon to consult his old 
friend upon his own condition ; he had learned 
that certain strange and disturbing sensations he 
had experienced of late were the symptoms of a 


Pratt Portraits, 


1 68 

malignant disease from which nothing but a 
severe surgical operation could possibly save 
him. He knew that the result of such an 
operation was very doubtful, yet he had de- 
termined to entrust his case to a young sur- 
geon, James BUery by name, whose education and 
opening career he had watched with an intense 
interest, the secret of which only Dr. Morse 
knew. James Ellery, the youngest of the five 
children left fatherless through Anson Bennett’s 
fault, had shown an aptitude for study, and 
Anson had joyfully undertaken to educate the 
boy for the practice of medicine. Now at last the 
boy had grown to be a man, fully equipped for 
his profession, giving promise of unusual distinc- 
tion, and Anson Bennett’s heart was far more 
bound up in this young career than in his own 
colorless, eventless life. As he sat tinkering the 
old glasses a feeling of exultation made his heart 
beat faster. Yes, he, Anson Bennett, had been 
the determining power in this young man’s life. 
Unaware though he was, of the very name of his 
benefactor, young Ellery owed his education, 
owed his future to him, the wretched quack, on 
whose ignorant ambition his father had been sac- 
rificed. And now Dr. Morse saw no reason why 
this boy should not undertake to perform one of 
the most difficult operations known to science, 
and he, Anson Bennett, was to furnish the test. 

The town clock struck nine, and Anson put up 
his tools and prepared to leave the shop. As he 


A New Engla 7 i(l Conscience, 169 

stepped out into the night air, he found himself 
taking a round-about way home. It was prettier 
by way of High Street, he said to himself, but in 
his heart he knew that it was the presence of his 
old love in the ancient square house behind the 
elm trees, that lured his feet from the usual path. 

It was a bleak November evening. The wind 
swayed the bare branches of the trees in front of 
the old Ives homestead. A fragile-looking moon, 
about a week old, was pitching and tossing among 
the clouds, and Anson vaguely wondered if it 
might not founder. There were lights in several 
of the windows, and he paused a moment, look- 
ing at them. He did not speculate as to Alice’s 
whereabouts in the house. Rather, he had a feel- 
ing that all that soft, curtained light emanated 
from her presence. And as he stood there he 
recalled the day, the very hour, in which he had 
last thought of her as a possible possession of his 
own. He remembered the exact appearance of 
the horse he was driving that day, the creaking 
of the wheel of his chaise, causing him to 
wonder whether he was going to have a hot 
box ; he remembered how green were the mead- 
ows between which he drove, and most clearly, 
most poignantly did he recall the rich scent 
of the apple-blossoms, the peculiar delicacy of 
their color, and the way a stray petal came 
floating down and rested on his knee. To-night 
there was no longer any pain in these recollec- 
tions. He seemed to be losing hold of his old 


Prait Portraits, 


I 70 

self and his old desires, and even as he stood 
before the house, whose roof sheltered Alice, his 
mind returned with a sudden rebound to the 
thought of what was coming, and he hurried 
home with a quick step and a light heart. 

In the few days that intervened before the oper- 
ation was performed. Dr. Bennett led his usual 
life, maintained all his usual habits. Every 
morning he walked in his shabby old overcoat to 
his little shop, where he industriously mended 
old glasses, or made an occasional sale of new 
ones. When meal-times came, he sat at table 
with his mother, and patiently answered her 
questions, letting her talk and speculate, criticise 
and suggest what she would in regard to the im- 
pending event. But though he never failed in 
attention to her words, he was singularly obli- 
vious to the signs of anxiety and distress in her 
face and manner, which would not have escaped 
an ordinary observer. If he gave a thought to 
the matter, it was merely to note that she seemed 
more irritable than usual. He never guessed the 
tension of feeling under which she was living. 

Once he said a very cruel thing to her. It was 
at breakfast two days before the Thursday which 
mother and son looked forward to with such dif- 
ferent feelings. Anson did not notice the lines 
and shadows on his mother’s face which beto- 
kened a sleepless night, nor did he dream that she 
had lain awake hour after hour, wondering what 
she could do to express her love and solicitude. 


A Neiv England Conscience, 1 7 1 

“ Anson,” she said, looking not at him, but at 
a hole in her napkin, which she seemed to have 
just discovered, “ Anson, I ’ye been thinking 
that I ’d give you a new overcoat this winter, 
seeing as you don’t care to buy one.” 

With that singular obtuseness where his mother 
was concerned, which had grown upon this good 
and conscientious man, he fancied that she only 
meant to shame him into doing as she wished, 
and he said, indifferently : 

“ I guess you ’d better not. Mother. I may not 
need an overcoat after Thursday. ’ ’ 

She was in the act of passing him his coffee, 
and her hand shook so that the saucer was quite 
flooded. Anson emptied the contents of the 
saucer back into the cup, suppressing his annoy- 
ance. He hated to have his coffee slopped, but 
he never found fault with his mother. He had 
the reputation of being a very considerate son. 

They made up a bed for him in the little old 
sitting-room, where most of the evenings of his 
life had been spent. And his chief feeling, as he 
laid himself down upon the bed, was one of regret 
that he was not to be allowed to retain his con- 
sciousness, and be a witness to the skill of his 
young surgeon. He watched him with the great- 
est interest before the ether was administered. 
He liked the precision of the young man’s move- 
ments, the clearness of his glance, the unobtru- 
sive self-confidence of his manner. He heard Dr. 
Morse ask his mother to leave the room, and his 


Pratt Portraits. 


1 72 

eyes did not follow her retreating figure, nor did 
he see the look she gave him as she turned away. 

An hour later three figures sat beside the bed, 
waiting for signs of returning consciousness. Dr. 
Morse, his gray head bent and his shaggy eye- 
brows meeting, regarded the patient with calm 
watchfulness. The glance and attitude of the 
young physician were intense and eager. On the 
other side of the bed, close to the wall, sat a small, 
erect figure ; the face, with a pinched look on it, 
showing sharp-cut against the wall-paper, on 
which gaily dressed shepherdesses smirked and 
courtesied. Jane Bennett’s sharp black eyes were 
fixed upon the closed lids of her son. When 
Anson moved slightly, as he did several times 
before the lids were raised, she started eagerly 
forward ; but when at last he opened his eyes, it 
was toward his old friend that they were turned. 

“Well, Doctor,” he said, in a feeble voice, 

‘ ‘ how did the operation go ? ” 

“ Splendidly,” said Dr. Morse. “ Splendidly ! 
But don’t exert yourself to talk.” 

With a look of perfect content the sick man 
closed his eyes. 

For many hours Anson seemed to be sleeping 
peacefully. Yet to the mother’s perception, no 
less than to the trained eye of the physician, it 
was clear that his life was ebbing. 

The day wore away and night came on, and 
still the two men watched beside him ; and still 
that small rigid figure kept guard between the 


A New England Conscience, 173 


bed and the pictured shepherdesses. Once or 
twice the doctors asked some service of her, which 
she performed swiftly and exactly, after which she 
slipped back to her disregarded post. 

Just after midnight Anson opened his eyes 
once more, and smiled faintly. Dr. Morse bent 
toward him. 

“ Bennett,” he said, with a compassionate look 
toward the mother, ‘ ‘ Bennett, this has been a great 
strain upon your system. It is only fair to tell you 
that it is possible that you may not pull through. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Tell me again, ’ ’ the patient questioned, ‘ ‘ was 
there anything wrong about the operation ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The operation was magnificent, ’ ’ his friend 
declared, “ but you don’t seem to have the vitality 
you need.” 

‘ ‘ That ’s no account. Doctor, that ’s no account. ’ ’ 
The dying man’s voice was almost querulous. 
“ The operation ' s the thing. That ’s all we care 
about.” 

Then turning to Ellery he added, half apolo- 
getically : “You see. Doctor, I once did a little 
doctoring myself, and I ’ve kept up my interest in 
these things. ’ ’ 

His mother put her hand on his, and he looked 
at her wonderingly. 

“Why, mother,” he said. “You up so late? 
Had n’t you better go to bed ? ” 

Toward morning he rallied once more, and 
signed to Ellery to come nearer. The young man 
bent a grave face to listen. 


174 


Pratt Portraits. 


“Dr. Ellery,” said Bennett slowly. “Don’t 
you worry because you ’ ve lost a patient. You ’ ve 
done your part magnificently. Did n’t you hear 
Dr. Morse say so ? Magnificently ! And he ’s a 
good judge — I tell you— he ’s — a — good — judge. ’ ’ 

His voice wavered a little on these last words, 
as though the thought were eluding him. His 
mind had evidently wandered. 

And Jane Bennett, whose self-assertion had 
never before failed her, only sat there, with a 
piteous, drawn look about her lips, her eyes fixed 
upon the tranquil face which did not turn toward 
hers. Dr. Morse had grasped the patient’s hand, 
and bent down to hear what he might say. The 
sick man’s eyes were open, and there was a 
strange, remote look in them. Suddenly a change 
came, his face lighted up, and he whispered 
eagerly : 

“See! See! Apple-blossoms!” And with 
their fragrance on his spirit, Anson Bennett died. 

Then, too late to reach his ears, a voice sharp 
with agony cried : 

“ Anson ! O Anson ! You forgot your mother ! ’ ’ 


VIII. 


THE SCHOOEMARM. 

A DISAGREEABEE sensation was caused 
throughout the entire Pratt family when 
Mary William announced her intention 
of “keeping school.” Old Eady Pratt, 
who knew the history of the family ever since she 
came into it, some sixty years before, could testify 
that no daughter of that highly respectable house 
had ever “worked for a living.” An unpreju- 
diced observer might have thought that Old Eady 
Pratt herself had worked for a living, and worked 
harder than any school-teacher, all through the 
childhood of her six boys and girls. But that, of 
course, was a different matter, as anybody must 
understand. A woman toiling early and late for 
husband and children was but fulfilling the chief 
end and aim of her being, but a woman who set 
out to wrest a living from the world, when she 
“need want for nothing at home,” was clearly 
flying in the face of Providence. 

“ Well, Mary,” she said to her grand-daughter, 
“you must not expect me to countenance any 
such step.” 


175 


176 


Pratt Portraits, 


“ Why not, Grandma ? ” 

“ Why not ? Because I don’t approve of yotmg 
women gettin’ dissatisfied with the sphere to 
which they ’ve been called. That ’s why not.” 

“But I have n’t been called to any sphere. 
Now that Bessie and Willie are almost as grown 
up as I am, mother does n’t need me any more, 
and I don’t see why I ’m not entitled to a change 
if I want one.” 

“If you want a change,” said Grandma, 
promptly ; “you ’d much better get married.” 

“Now, Grandma! You know well enough 
that I never had an offer. If I had, you ’d have 
heard of it fast enough.” 

“And you don’t deserve to have one,” cried 
the old lady, with asperity, ‘ ‘ if you go and spile 
everything by turning schoolmarm.” 

This was a sore subject with Old Tady Pratt. 
She, who was the sworn foe to single blessedness, 
had constantly to hear that her own grand- 
daughters had “never had an offer.” It was 
not that they were less sought than other girls of 
their age, but early marriages had almost gone 
out of fashion since Grandma’s day, and many a 
handsome girl might get to be well on in the 
twenties before a serious suitor made his ap- 
pearance. 

Mary William — so called to distinguish her 
from her Uncle Anson’s daughter, who went by 
the name of Mary Anson — Mary William was at 
this time twenty-one years of age. Her father, the 


The Sckoolmarm, 


177 


hero of the family, had been killed at the first bat- 
tle of Bull Run, six years previous. He had left 
his affairs, what there was of them, in such per- 
fect order that his widow knew precisely what she 
had to depend upon — a fact on which all the Pratts 
laid great emphasis. But to know one’s financial 
status, if that status chance to be extremely low, 
is scarcely compensation for hardships and priva- 
tions, and Mrs. William Pratt used fervently to 
wish that there had been just sufficient inaccuracy 
in her husband’s accounts to leave a margin of 
possibility that a windfall might yet occur. 

Mrs. William Pratt was not a woman of much 
energy or resource. She had a few fixed ideas, 
one of them being that she could not consent to 
‘ ‘ come down in the world. ’ ’ Coming down in 
the world meant to her comprehension renting or 
selling the commodious, well-built house in which 
her husband had installed her during the days of 
their prosperity, and moving into smaller quar- 
ters. Her house was Edna Pratt’s special pride. 
It was large and rambling, with a front hall 
which did not confine itself to the manifest mis- 
sion of furnishing a landing-place from the stairs, 
but spread itself out into an octagonal space, 
wherein pillars stood supporting arches ; a dim 
ancestral-looking hall, which could not fail to 
impress a stranger. But as strangers rarely visited 
Mrs. William Pratt, and as nearly all the fre- 
quenters of the house distinctly remembered its 
erection a dozen or more years previous, the hall 

12 


178 


Pratt Portraits, 


did not make quite the baronial impression which 
might have been expected. Mary William, espe- 
cially when performing the arduous duties of 
maid-of-all-work minus the wages, used to mur- 
mur within herself against the hall, and against 
all the spacious rooms, which seemed to have 
taken their cue from it. For she reflected that 
every superfluous square yard of floor meant just 
so much more carpet to sweep ; that every inch of 
wood-work offered just so much more of a resting- 
place for dust. Mary William was of the opinion 
that her youth had been deliberately sacrificed to 
the house, and pre-eminently to the pillared hall, 
and she secretly rebelled against it with all her 
might and main. Not work for her living, in- 
deed ? How many a time had the one “ girl ” of 
the establishment been dismissed on some slight 
pretext ! How many a time had her ‘ ‘ place ’ ’ 
remained vacant, and while Mrs. William Pratt 
sat in the parlor or lingered among the baronial 
pillars, complaining to visitors of the inferiority 
and scarcity of servants, the unfortunate Mary 
William had stood scorching her face over the 
kitchen stove, or cleaning the set of elaborate 
repoussi silver, which lent such an air of distinc- 
tion to their sideboard. 

But Mary William was a young person of 
much determination and rather unusual intelli- 
gence, and while her hands grew rough and her 
temper just a little sharpened in the drudgery of 
her daily life, she saw to it that no rust should 


The Schoolmarm. 


179 


gather upon her excellent mental faculties. She 
had graduated from the high-school at the head 
of her class, and after her education was thus 
“completed,” she managed with the aid of the 
public library, to do a good deal of solid reading 
and some studying. Mary William was not in- 
tended for a bookworm, but she turned to books 
as being the most congenial and the least exact- 
ing society within her reach. She was not able 
to dress well and tastefully. She was not able to 
entertain her friends at home, being far too poor 
for such luximies. Neither was she the girl to 
enjoy playing a subordinate part in life, and she 
felt keenly the social disabilities which her 
poverty imposed upon her. She had never been 
of a complaining disposition, and no one suspected 
her of any discontent with her lot. But in her 
own mind she had long contemplated a declara- 
tion of independence, to be made when she 
should come of age. This was to occur in July, 
but she had no intention of hurrying matters. 
When she came down to breakfast, however, on 
the very morning of her twenty-first birthday, 
she suddenly found it impossible to refrain from 
making known her plans. 

‘ ‘ Teach school ! ’ ’ cried her mother, in a tone 
of ineffectual protest. 

“Be a schoolmarm ! ’ ’ cried Bessie ; while 
Willie, who was still subject to the redoubtable 
race of schoolmarms, gazed upon her with a 
mixture of awe and incredulity. 


i8o 


Pratt Portraits. 


‘ ‘ I never heard of such a ridiculous idea, ’ ’ said 
Mrs. William Pratt. 

“I don’t see anything ridiculous about it,” 
Mary retorted, giving vent to her feelings with 
unprecedented freedom. ‘‘I ’ve been scrimping 
and pinching and slaving all my life, and now I 
want to try how it feels to have a few dollars of 
my own.” 

‘ ‘ A few dollars of your own ! ’ ’ cried her 
mother. “ Why, Mary, what an ungrateful girl 
you are ! Does n’t your Aunt Harriet give you 
twenty-five dollars every single birthday ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, Aunt Harriet is very kind ; but twenty- 
five dollars is n’t what you would call an ample 
income. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But you have more than that to spend, and 
your living not costing you a cent either ! ’ ’ 

“No; neither does her living cost Bridget a 
cent ’ ’ ; and then Mary William stopped, and did 
not pursue the comparison, an act of forbearance 
which should be recorded to her credit. 

After breakfast sixteen-year-old Bessie came 
up to her with wondering eyes, and said, “ Mary, 
do you suppose you ’ll get rich teaching school ? ” 

“ Not very rich, puss.” 

“ I wish there were some way of getting rich, 
don’t you ? ” 

‘ ‘ Indeed I do, Bessie. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What would you do, Mary, if you were rich ? ’ ’ 

“ I should sail for Europe next week ; and I 
should send Willie to college when it came time.” 


The Schoolmarm, 


i8i 


“And me?” 

“You?” said Mary, looking thoughtfully at 
her pretty little sister. ‘ ‘ I would give you every 
single thing you wanted. ’ ’ 

This feeling for Bessie, that she was a creature 
born to have every wish gratified, was common 
to all who knew the child. Mary had no fear 
that in the event of her leaving home she 
should shift the burden of household drudgery on 
to her younger sister’s shoulders. Even Mrs. 
William Pratt would not have made Bessie work. 

Now Mrs. William Pratt, though a weak 
woman, and both vain and selfish, was much 
respected in her husband’s family. All were 
grateful to her for having kept up appearances on 
so small an income, and the fact that this had 
been done at her daughter Mary’s expense was 
not wholly understood, even by her sharp-eyed 
mother-in-law. Hence, when she raised a cry of 
indignation at Mary’s revolutionary behavior, she 
was sustained by a full chorus of disapproval 
from the whole clan. 

Nevertheless Mary carried her point. Her 
venture was successful beyond her hopes. She 
had not led her class in the high school for 
nothing. No sooner had she made known her 
intentions than she was offered the position of 
assistant in the grammar-school of her own dis- 
trict, with the munificent salary of $350. 

Singularly enough, her actual engagement as a 
teacher wrought an entire change in the feelings 


i 82 


Pratt Portraits. 


of the family. It was like the first plunge into 
cold water. The family pride had shrunk from 
it, but a reaction set in almost immediately, and 
that same family pride experienced a glow of 
gratification that one of their number should be 
so capable and so well thought of. Small as was 
the sum which Mary was to receive for her ser- 
vices, it was relatively large — large measured by 
her previous limitations. Her more prosperous 
relatives had become so accustomed to the ex- 
tremely small income which the William Pratts 
had to live upon that they had come to regard it 
as quite in the natural order of things, and to bear 
it with philosophical indifference. Now, how- 
ever, that Mary had taken matters into her own 
hands, and was prepared to mould her own for- 
tunes, they rejoiced with her as loudly as though 
they had hitherto realized her deprivations. 

Old Tady Pratt alone withheld her approval. 
The fact of Mary’s having a little more money 
seemed to her to be of small consequence in com- 
parison with the girl’s “prospects.” She was 
made of sterner stuff than her descendants ; she 
knew deprivation and hard work by heart, and 
she was not in the least afraid of them for herself 
or for anybody else. Even when Mrs. William 
Pratt told her that Mary had offered to pay three 
dollars a week for the “ girl’s ” wages, Old Eady 
Pratt remained obdurate. 

“Nonsense, Edna!” she said, sharply. “It 
would n’t hurt you a mite to do your own work. 


The Schoolmarm, 


183 

You ’da sight better do it than to have Mary 
turn out an old maid. There ’s Eliza Pelham, 
now. She acted jest so when she was Mary’s 
age, and she ’ll teach school to the end of the 
chapter. She got so set in her ways and so high- 
fly in’ in her notions that the Gov’ nor himself 
would n’t have suited her. You mark my words, 
Mary ’ll be an old maid, jest like Eliza. You see 
’f she ain’t.” 

And if Mary herself had been asked, she would 
have been the first to admit the reasonableness of 
her grandmother’s predictions. She had never 
been so happy in her life as she was the day on 
which she stepped upon the platform at school 
and assumed the responsibilities of ‘ ‘ school- 
marm.” Mary William loved to teach, and she 
loved also to rule — an art which she understood 
to perfection. There were some pretty black 
sheep among her flock, but before she had had 
them a month they had learned a lesson in 
wholesome discipline which seemed to them 
much more incontrovertible than anything Mur- 
ray had to say against alliances between plural 
subjects and singular verbs, or any of Greenleaf s 
arithmetical theories. The new teacher’s success 
made so strong an impression upon the school 
committee that by Christmas-time Miss Pratt’s 
name was mentioned in connection with a $500 
vacancy to occiu: the coming year in the high- 
school. Meanwhile Mary revelled in her inde- 
pendence ; and if she thought of matrimony in 


184 


Pratt Portraits. 


connection with herself, it was as a state of bond- 
age to be avoided at any cost. 

One pleasant day in April the young teacher 
had just dismissed a class in compound fractions, 
and sat looking down upon the motley collection 
of boys and girls arranged with geometrical sym- 
metry over the large room. She was aware of a 
spirit of restlessness among them. There were 
more boys than usual engaged in the time-hon- 
ored custom of twisting their legs in intricate pat- 
terns about the legs of their chairs, more girls 
gazing dreamily at the budding tree-tops just visi- 
ble through the high windows. Mary knew by her 
own uneven pulse that the seeds were sprouting 
in the ground outside, and that the spring trouble 
was stirring in the veins of all that youthful con- 
course. Mary William was in some respects wise 
beyond her years, and she did not reprove the 
vagaries of boyish legs and girlish eyes. But she 
kept a careful watch upon them during the study 
hour which preceded the long noon recess. 

Just before twelve o’clock she was surprised by 
the entrance of two well-dressed ladies who did 
not look quite like products of Dunbridge soil. 
As she went forward to meet them they called her 
by name, the more stately of the two introducing 
herself as Mrs. Beardsley, of Stanton. Mary 
William, though somewhat mystified, bade her 
guests welcome with a very good grace, saying 
that she was on the point of dismissing the school. 

The dispersion of the fifty or more boys and 


The Schoolmarm. 


i35 


girls was a matter of some ceremony — a ceremony 
regulated by a succession of strokes on the teach- 
er’s bell, and usually very strictly observed. At 
a certain critical point in the proceedings to-day, 
of all days of the year, the boys broke loose, and 
made a stampede for the door, the girls remaining 
in the aisles, with their arms crossed behind them 
— models of propriety before company. Mary 
William’s face flushed brightly, and she struck 
the shrill bell three times in rapid succession. 
Instantly the rabble of unruly boys stood trans- 
fixed. Two or three of them who had already 
escaped into the sunshine came sneaking back at 
the peremptory summons, while Mary William’s 
voice, with a bell-like ring in it, said : “ Boys, 

return to your seats ! ’ ’ 

When all the boys’ seats were filled with more 
or less contrite occupants, the order of exercises 
was resumed on the part of the girls, who filed 
quietly out of the room. Then Mary turned to 
her guests in a disengaged manner, with the as- 
siurance that she was quite at their service. A 
momentous conversation ensued. 

Mrs. Beardsley stated that she was the Mrs. 
Beardsley whose school for young ladies had so 
long maintained its reputation as the leading 
school for young ladies in the state. Miss Pratt 
had doubtless heard of Mrs. Beardsley’s school 
for young ladies. Miss Pratt was very sorry, but 
she was totally ignorant of any young ladies’ 
school whatever outside her own town. 


Pratt Portraits. 


1 86 

Mary had the discrimination to perceive that 
Mrs. Beardsley was a thorough woman of the 
world, and that she thought extremely well of 
herself Nevertheless, she listened with entire 
self-possession to the revelations which followed. 

Mrs. Beardsley was in search of a teacher to 
fill the place in the coming year of a valued as- 
sistant about to retire. She had heard Miss Pratt 
well spoken of by her cousin, the Rev. Mr. In- 
graham, of Dunbridge, and she had come, with 
her sister, Miss Ingraham, to interview Miss Pratt. 
Miss Pratt signified her willingness to be inter- 
viewed, asking permission at the same time to dis- 
miss the culprits, whose durance she considered 
to have been sufficiently long. This time the dis- 
persion was performed with a precision which an 
army sergeant might have envied. As the door 
closed behind the last round jacket, Mrs. Beards- 
ley resumed the thread of her discourse : 

“ My requirements. Miss Pratt, are somewhat 
severe. My school has a reputation to sustain, 
which necessitates rather exceptional qualifica- 
tions in my assistants. The sort of discipline, for 
instance, which you have just carried out so suc- 
cessfully with those rough boys, would be entirely 
out of place in a school whose members are young 
ladies from the first families in the state. Tact 
and worldly wisdom are essential in the govern- 
ment of such a body. Having no doubt of your 
acquirements as a mere teacher of the branches 
desired — ^namely, Tatin and mathematics — I am 


The Schoolmarm, 


187 


disposed to dwell more especially upon my exac- 
tions of a social nature. A teacher in my school 
must have the good-breeding and the equanimity 
of a lady, and, pardon my suggestion, she must 
dress in perfect taste.” 

Mary flushed slightly, being conscious of the 
ugliness of her gown, which had descended to 
her from a cousin whose means exceeded her dis- 
cretion in matters of taste. 

Mrs. Beardsley, having paused a moment, that 
the full weight of her words might take effect, 
asked, “ Do you feel. Miss Pratt, that you are 
fitted in every particular to fill such a position ? ’ ’ 

The flush on Mary’s face had subsided, and to 
her own surprise she did not flinch. She raised 
her clear hazel eyes to those of her catechist, and 
with a direct gaze, in which there was unmistaka- 
ble power, she said, quietly, “Yes, Mrs. Beards- 
ley, I do.” 

Mrs. Beardsley returned the girl’s look with an 
accession of interest. The ‘ ‘ woman of the world ’ ’ 
was not a creature of impulse, but she was a stu- 
dent of character, and, without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, she said, ‘ ‘ I engage you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ’ ’ said the new assistant, as though 
the conversation were ended. 

Mrs. Beardsley and Miss Ingraham exchanged 
glances, and waited for Mary’s next remark; but 
it was not forthcoming. Mary seemed for the 
moment to have forgotten herself She was look- 
ing about the homely room where she had served 


Pratt Portraits, 


i88 

her short apprenticeship, lost in wonder over her 
sudden good fortune. Mary William was deeply 
impressed by Mrs. Beardsley’s personality. She 
had always wanted to have a taste of the “ great 
world.” She loved the amenities of life, she 
loved the power which social training gives, and 
to her unsophisticated mind it seemed as though 
a school presided over by Mrs. Beardsley — a school 
where were gathered the daughters of the ” first 
families in the state” — must offer an opening 
through which she might get at least a peep into 
that same great world. 

Finding her future assistant disinclined to take 
the initiative, Mrs. Beardsley said, “You have 
asked me nothing about terms. Miss Pratt. ’ ’ 

“Oh yes ! Terms ! ” answered Mary William, 
recalled to practical affairs, in which she felt no 
sentimental lack of interest. 

“That is, of course, in a certain sense, my af- 
fair,” Mrs. Beardsley resumed ; “ but I should be 
ciudous to know your ideas on the subject.” 

Mary looked at her shrewdly. “ I suppose the 
salary would be proportionate to the require- 
ments, ’ ’ she said. 

“ Avery reasonable supposition,” Mrs. Beards- 
ley admitted. ‘ ‘ Then we will come to the point. 
As only a small number of my pupils live in my 
family, I shall not require your services there. 
You will, therefore, be at some expense for your 
living, and I had thought of offering you ’ ’ — she 
paused a moment to notice whether the girl 


The Schoolmarm. 


189 


looked eager, but Mary William gave no sign — 
“ twelve hundred and fifty dollars. Should you 
think that a fair compensation ? ’ ’ 

Mary’s eyes sparkled. Touched by the gener- 
osity of such an offer to a mere grammar-school 
teacher, she cried, impulsively, “ I ought to be a 
better teacher than I am, to be worth all that to 
you. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Beardsley was gratified, but she only said, 
‘ ‘ If you are not worth that, you are worth 
nothing to me. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Beardsley had gone out in seareh of a 
‘ ‘ treasure, ’ ’ and she had found one. As for 
Mary William, she had set forth on an errand 
almost as humble as Saul’s, and, like him, she 
suddenly found herself endowed — ^to her own 
thinking — with a kingdom. 

All summer long Mary spent mueh of her time 
in fashioning tasteful garments, wherein to meet 
one, at least, of Mrs. Beardsley’s requirements, 
and her needle went in and out as gayly as though 
set to music. 

Her friends told her of proposed joumeyings or 
weeks to be spent at the seaside, but she envied 
none of them. What were a few weeks of pleas- 
uring compared to the gift of liberty to live 
your own life in your own way ? As she tried on 
one completed garment after another, examining 
the effect critically in the glass, she thought of 
Mrs. Beardsley and of that formidable band of 
school-girls, and she took heart of hope. 


190 


Pratt Portraits. 


One day she stood before her mirror, arrayed in 
a claret-colored cashmere, which was to be her 
‘ ‘ Sunday gown ’ ’ in the coming winter. There 
was a trimming of velvet ribbon which was highly 
effective, and the broad tatting collar was very 
becoming to the round white throat within it. 
Mary studied the dress with some satisfaction, 
and then she inadvertently looked up at her 
reflected face. For the first time in her life she 
was struck with her own good looks, and her 
eyes danced with pleasure. Mrs. Beardsley would 
be more likely to approve her, the school-girls 
would perhaps like her, if she looked like that. 
She smiled at herself, and the pretty teeth thus 
revealed added greatly to the favorable impres- 
sion. 

‘ ‘ How absurd I am ! ’ ’ she said to herself, and 
she laughed aloud. She had never seen her 
laughing face before. It had been a prematurely 
serious countenance which she had associated 
with herself “Oh, is n’t it delicious to be 
alive? ’’she exclaimed, confidingly, to her own 
image. 

If vanity is pleasure in one’s own good points, 
Mary William was rapidly developing her share 
of it. But the beauty and originality of her 
vanity consisted in the turn it took. It looked 
only to pleasing a middle-aged woman and a 
school full of young girls, and, as such well-regu- 
lated vanity deserved, it was crowned with suc- 
cess. 


The Schoolmarm. 


191 


The first week in September — for schools began 
earlier in Mary William’s day than in ours — 
Mrs. Beardsley’s “treasure” arrived upon the 
scene, and took all hearts by storm. It would be 
difficult to say whether the exhilaration of her 
spirits made the new teacher charming, or whether 
her almost instant popularity was the secret of 
that same exhilaration. Such things go hand in 
hand. Certain it is that Mary William lived 
in a round of pleasures far more stimulating, 
and far more satisfying too, than the pleasures 
usually thus designated. She loved her work so 
thoroughly that its very difficulties but lent it 
zest. She liked the girls, and she regarded Mrs. 
Beardsley with the enthusiastic devotion felt by a 
subaltern for his superior officer. 

And so the first school term went by only too 
swiftly, and the long Christmas vacation came as 
an unwelcome interruption. How much more 
unwelcome would it have been had Mary William 
known what it held in store for her ! Nothing 
could have been more unlooked for, nothing could 
have been to Mary more unwished for, than the 
events which followed upon the arrival from his 
Western ranch of the minister’s son, Fred In- 
graham. When Mary returned home for the 
holidays, he had been in Dunbridge scarcely a 
week, and had not yet ceased to be the sensation 
of the hour. 

Fred Ingraham came into her life with all the 
freshness and insistency of a prairie breeze, which 


Pratt Portraits, 


19^ 

goes sweeping across level leagues unhindered by 
any obstacle, unabashed by any contrary currents. 
This minister’s son, with his high-bred features 
and his air of conscious power, belonged to the 
finest type of ranchman. In him many of the 
best qualities springing from the old civilization 
existed side by side with the spirit and vigor 
which animate the pioneer. There was not lack- 
ing a touch of the absolute monarch, such as your 
genuine ranchman was five-and-twenty years ago. 
Being, then, a young man of ready decision and 
of hitherto unalterable determination, no sooner 
did he behold the little girl whom he had patron- 
ized in big-boy fashion a few years previous, 
transformed into a surprising likeness to his 
secretly-cherished ideal of a woman, than he fell 
precipitately in love with her. There was no 
time to be lost in preliminaries, and Fred pressed 
his suit with the courage and persistency which 
might have been expected of an absolute monarch 
— to say nothing of a Yankee boy accustomed to 
deal with rough cowboys and pitching bronchos. 

Mary was at first thrown off her guard by the 
very suddenness of the assault. She had been 
predisposed in his favor by all she knew of the 
daring and independence of his course in break- 
ing loose from family traditions and choosing his 
own rough path in life. She looked upon him as 
a kindred spirit, and they had many a long talk 
and more than one walk together in the sparkling 
Christmas weather before she took the alarm. 


The Schoolmarm, 


193 


He had often talked to her of ranch life — so 
new and interesting a theme in those early days, 
before the cowboy had been tamed into print. 
He told her of the life of adventure and hardship 
which he had known, of his vast herds of cattle, 
and his wide domains. It seemed to her as 
though this dominion over men and over beasts 
had conferred upon him a certain patent of no- 
bility, and she listened with kindling attention to 
all he had to say. But if he seemed to her to be 
something of a hero, it was the hero of a realm 
as remote from her as were the lands of the Orient 
or the ages of the past. And because of the re- 
moteness and foreignness of her interest hitherto, 
because of her perfect sense of aloofness from it all, 
she had listened without suspicion or constraint. 

They were walking home together from the 
skating pond one afternoon, their two pairs of 
skates rattling gayly together in her companion’s 
hand, making a pleasant metallic accompaniment 
to his narration. 

Suddenly he interrupted himself to say : ‘ ‘ Mary, 
you would like ranch life immensely. I am sure 
of it. Don’t you think you would ? ” 

His words were harmless enough, but the sud- 
den pleading urgency of his manner, and some- 
thing new and intensely personal in his tone, 
startled her, and she instantly bristled. 

“Oh, yes ! ’ ’ she said. “ I ’ ve no doubt I should 
like it if I were a man. But it must be a hideous 

life for a woman.” 

13 


194 


Pratt Portraits. 


Fred bore the rebuff manfully, though it felt as 
grating and as blinding as a sudden prairie sand- 
storm. He turned and looked at her as she 
walked erect and strong by his side. A more 
defiant-looking young person he had never seen, 
nor a more altogether desirable one. Good 
heavens ! the very curve of her chin was worth 
dying for, and Fred drew a deep breath and 
swore within himself that she should yet be 
vanquished. 

The rest of that day Mary tried vainly to be- 
lieve that her panic had been foolish and uncalled 
for. But she knew better. She feared that it 
was unmaidenly and conceited; that she was de- 
serving of all the worst epithets usually applied 
to a forward girl; but she knew as positively as 
though Fred had told her so in plain English 
that this remarkably strong-willed young man 
was planning to overturn her whole scheme of 
life, to wrest from her her precious independence, 
to make her life subordinate to his. She would 
not allow herself to think in terms less harsh of 
his designs, and she put herself on the defensive 
in a manner so transparent that it would have 
been amusing to any one less immediately inter- 
ested in her state of mind than Fred. 

He meanwhile did his best to retrieve that first 
blunder by the exercise of an almost superhuman 
discretion. He saw his opportunity slipping 
away with the fleeting vacation days ; he knew 
that in a cruelly short time Mary would be once 


The Schoolmarnt. 


195 


more intrenched in her beloved work under the 
protection of that much-respected dragon Mrs. 
Beardsley. But he also knew that her mind, if 
not her heart, was set against his suit, and he did 
not dare defy her openly. They met less fre- 
quently now, Mary having developed a talent for 
eluding him which was most baffling. She seemed 
to feel a new interest in all the other young men 
and maidens of her acquaintance, and she dis- 
tributed her favors with an irritating impartiality. 
So persistent was she in this course that a man 
less accustomed to having his way, or with less 
confidence in the righteousness of his cause, might 
well have been discouraged. But Fred Ingraham 
had that deeply rooted faith in his own instincts 
which a life spent on very close terms with nature, 
even in her rougher moods, tends to develop. He 
felt that it was not “ in the nature of things ” — a 
favorite expression of his — that such an absolute, 
such an unquenchable, such an altogether reason- 
able love as his for Mary should waken no re- 
sponse. He used to watch her as she moved 
about in company, bestowing her frank smile and 
quick sympathy upon indifferent people, and in 
his inmost heart he said : 

‘ ‘ She is mine ! I am the only person on earth 
who knows it, but she belongs to me, and there 
is no escape for her. ’ ’ 

All through those tedious days of wasted 
opportunity he never for a moment questioned 
his inalienable right in the woman of his choice. 


196 


Pratt Portraits. 


Mary meanwhile did not consciously yield an 
inch. Any intruding thoughts of this lover, 
whose very existence was so importunate, she 
drowned in plans which had a peculiar meaning 
and fascination for her. 

“ Summer after next,” she would say to her- 
self, “ I shall go abroad” ; and she marshalled 
all the wonders and delights of Europe to the 
support of her resolution. 

A needless help had she felt as certain of her- 
self as she thought she did. Surely Mary Wil- 
liam was the last girl to marry any man out 
of tenderness for his feelings. She was not weak- 
ly soft-hearted. Other feelings than his must 
have been involved before her position could be 
thus endangered. The story of Mary William’s 
reasonings and self-communings during that 
memorable holiday season would read like a psy- 
chological treatise. 

The last night of the old year — which was also 
the last night of her visit at home — was to be 
celebrated with a “social gathering” at the Rev. 
Mr. Ingraham’s house. Mary was arrayed for 
the occasion in her claret-colored cashmere, in- 
tending to accompany her family to the very 
stronghold of the enemy, when a sudden misgiv- 
ing seized her, and she decided not to go. 

“You may say I have a headache, if you like,” 
she told her mother. 

“ But, Mary, it will never do to leave you alone 
in the house. You know Bridget is going out, 


The Sckoolmarm. 


197 

and we ’ve let the furnace fire go down, and you ’ll 
take cold.” 

“I can light a fire in the hall grate,” said 
Mary. ‘ ‘ That will make the house warmer when 
you come in. Besides, I shall go to bed early.” 

When the house was quite empty, Mary moved 
a small table up before the fire, placed a lighted 
lamp upon it, and armed with an old guide-book 
of Switzerland, which she had borrowed of one of 
her cousins, sat down to a cozy evening. Strange 
to say, the book did not seem interesting, the 
shadows among the pillars in the dimly-lighted 
hall disturbed her, and, worst of all, she found 
herself thinking of Fred. She probably should 
not see him again for a long time ; there would be 
no more need of evasions, no more reasonings 
with herself. She had a feeling that she had 
passed through a time of probation, and a certain 
lassitude crept over her which was soothing, after 
the perplexities and self-discipline of the past ten 
days. She let her thoughts take their own turn, 
knowing well where they would tend. It was 
such a pity about Fred ; he was so much nicer 
than any one else. Yes, she could afford to say 
it, now that it was all over — she liked him ‘ ‘ best 
of anybody.” 

“Oh, dear,” she said, half aloud, with a hard, 
hungry feeling af her heart, “ I wish there was n’t 
any such thing as marrying ! ’ ’ 

She watched the blue flames dancing on top of 
the bed of coals, and the little rows of sparks run- 


198 


Pratt Portraits, 


ning along the soot at the back of the chimney — 
‘ ‘ folks going to meeting, ’ ’ she had been taught 
to call them. Somehow the suggestion of a 
string of people all bound for the same place 
made her feel cross. 

“Everybody ’s always doing just the same thing 
as everybody else. It is so tiresome ! If nobody 
else had ever got married, Ered would never have 
thought of anything so foolish ” ; and then she 
laughed at her own childishness. She would 
have liked to cry just as well as to laugh, but she 
usually drew the line at tears. 

It must have been about nine o’clock when 
there was a sharp ring at the door-bell. Mary 
shuddered. Was it some midnight marauder? 
Alas ! her forebodings were worse than that. 
Thieves and murderers she might perhaps know 
how to deal with, but there was an enemy more to 
be dreaded than they. The bell rang a second time, 
reverberating loudly through the empty house, be- 
fore she answered it. Her worst fears were realized. 

‘ ‘ Why, Ered, is that you ? ’ ’ she said, holding 
the door half open in a gingerly manner. ‘ ‘ Did 
mother want anything ? ’ ’ 

“No. It ’s I that want something. Are n’t 
you going to invite me in ? ” 

“Oh, yes! Come in. I was so surprised I 
How could you leave your party ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That was easy enough. I just walked out of 
the room. How pleasant it looks here I This is 
the hall you dislike so much. Pity you should I 


The Schoolmarm. 


199 


It makes an uncommonly good setting. And the 
fire is so pretty ! I don’t wonder you liked it 
better than a crowd of people. We burn wood at 
the ranch — great logs four feet long. They make 
a blaze to warm the very cockles of your heart. 
May I get a chair ? ’ ’ 

Mary had never known him to be so voluble, 
but she was not in the least reassured by his flow 
of words. 

‘ ‘ What are you reading ? ” he asked, as he sat 
down on the other side of the fireplace. 

Her fingers still clasped the red book, though 
she had not opened it for an hour past. At men- 
tion of it, she recovered herself. 

“It is Murray’s guide-book of Switzerland. 
Have I never told you that I am going abroad 
summer after next ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Really ? How enterprising you are ! ’ ’ 

“Oh, it can be easily managed. You know I 
have quite a princely income. ’ ’ 

“Mary,” he cried, abruptly, “give up your 
income, give up Europe, give up all those plans. 
Come with me ! Not now — of course you could n’ t 
— ^but next summer. ’ ’ 

She shut her lips firmly together, and stared at 
the fire. 

‘ ‘ See ! ” he went on. ‘ ‘ I put it in the baldest 
words. I concede everything from the very be- 
ginning. I know you would be giving up every- 
thing you care for; I k<iow I am asking a 
perfectly tremendous sacrifice. ’ ’ 


200 


Pratt Portraits, 


“Would you make such a sacrifice for me?” 
she asked, in a hard, dry tone. “ I love my way 
of life just as well as you do yours. Would you 
give up your ranch and come and teach school 
with me ? ’ ’ 

“ That ’s not a fair question, Mary. You might 
as well ask if I would wear girl’s clothes to please 
you. You would n’t respect me if I did.” 

“I don’t agree with you at all,” she said, 
sharply and argumentatively. It did not sound 
like her pleasantly-modulated voice. “I don’t 
see that the sacrifice would be any greater for 
you than for me. My work and my ambitions 
are just as necessary to me as yours are to you. 
And you would never think of sacrificing yours 
for my sake.” 

“I’m not so sure that there is anything under 
heaven that I wouldn’t do for you, Mary,” he 
cried, impetuously. “ But that is something you 
would never ask. You would n’t be yourself if 
you did. Men sacrifice their lives for women, not 
their careers. It would not be in the nature of 
things for you to ask of me what I am asking of 
you.” 

He paused a moment, and then he was sorry he 
had done so. Her face was set and repellant. But 
she spoke before he could stop her. 

“No, Fred, I can’t do it,” she said; “and 
please don’t talk to me any more. Did n’t 
mother say I had a headache ? ’ ’ 

“As though I believed that ! I don’t believe 


The Schoolmarm. 


201 


you ever had a headache in your life. And sup- 
posing you have ? What is a headache, I should 
like to know, compared to a heartache ? If I can 
bear to hear you say no in that horrid cold voice, 
you can bear to hear me talk as long as ever I 
choose. Mary, you shall hear me, and I am 
going to tell you something that will make you 
think you hate me. You know that I love you 
with all my heart and soul. But it seems foolish 
to talk about that. Of course I love you. Who 
could help it ? Cousin Letitia adores you, though 
she may not tell you so. Everybody adores you, 
simply because you are the most perfectly ador- 
able woman that ever lived. But, Mary,” and 
his voice sank to a lower key — “ Mary, there is 
one thing you don’t know, and that I am going 
to tell you— ^^ 72 ^ love 

‘ ‘ How dare you say such a thing to me, Fred 
Ingraham ? ’ ’ cried Mary, springing to her feet, 
white with anger, her eyes flashing, her breath 
coming fast. 

‘ ‘ I suppose it does sound like a brutal thing to 
say,” he admitted, “here in the house, where 
everything is conventional. ’ ’ 

He was also standing now, leaning back in the 
shadow against the chimney, watching Mary’s 
face with the uncertain firelight on it. The lamp 
was behind her. She had not got her breath 
sufficiently to speak again. The red book had 
dropped to the floor, and her hands were clinched. 
As he looked at her a sudden pity came over him. 


202 


Pratt Portraits, 


His voice was tender, as though he feared to hurt 
her more. 

“ I had meant to walk home with you from our 
house, and tell you then, Mary. There is lovely 
starlight outside, and out under the stars one 
does n’t mind the truth. We have wonderful 
starlight on the ranch, Mary. The air is so clear 
out there that you almost feel the stars throb. 
When I have been keeping watch the night after 
a round-up, riding round and round the great 
black mass of sleeping cattle on the wide black 
plains, it has seemed to me as though there were 
nothing real and lasting in all the universe but 
just those stars. Now there will be one thing as 
real and lasting as they, and that is my love for 
you. And, Mary, you may deny it ; you may 
fight it down and try to kill it, but I tell you 
solemnly, you will never look at the stars again 
as long as you live without knowing that you 
love me.” 

She had clasped her hands now, and held them 
tight together, but she would not lift her eyes 
from the fire. It seemed like a disembodied voice 
that she was listening to, and there was a strange 
compelling power in it that frightened her. She 
made a movement as though she would protest, 
but he interrupted her. 

“Don’t, Mary. Don’t say it again. Wait till 
you can say yes. Wait, just as you are, and 
think. I know you will say yes if you wait a 
little. You are too true not to see the truth.” 


The Schoolmarm, 


203 


Then she lifted her face in the firelight. ‘ ‘ Fred 
Ingraham,” she cried, in a despairing tone, “I 
believe I do hate you — you are — ^so— cruel.” 

Fred looked at the tragic face, and an exultant 
light came into his own. 

“ It ’s a kind of hate I ’m not afraid of, Mary,” 
he said, and he held out his arms. 

The shadows among the baronial pillars seemed 
to be swaying and wavering before her eyes, and 
her own step faltered. But she went to him, 
because she could not help it. He kissed her, 
rather cautiously, and she made no resistance. 
A strange, delicious, poignant happiness over- 
whelmed her. 

That night Mary cried herself to sleep for the 
first time since she was a little child. But in that 
beneficent storm of grief her last tottering defences 
were swept away. When, but a few hours later, 
the time of parting came, her valiant lover knew 
that her surrender was complete. 

Mrs. Beardsley generously forgave her young 
cousin for robbing her of her “ treasure,” though, 
as her short period of possession went by, she 
learned still better to measure her impending 
loss. She permitted herself but one form of re- 
venge, which, however, she always clung to. As 
often as she had occasion to write to him in after 
years, she never failed to address him as her 
“ dear bandit.” 

As for Old Tady Pratt, though Mary had gone 
contrary to all her prognostications, she was too 


204 


Pratt Portraits. 


much relieved to resent being put in the wrong. 
Her unfailing comment when the event was dis- 
cussed in the family was : “ Mary William ’s got 
more sense, arter all, than I giv’ her credit 
for.” 


IX. 

A VAI^ENTINK. 

E verybody liked Mattie and Hattie Pratt, 
and it would have been strange if such 
had not been the case. Even the fact of 
their universal popularity failed to create 
cavillers. The boys and girls of Dunbridge 
would as soon have thought of questioning the 
merits of the sunshine and the west wind, as the 
claims of Mattie and Hattie to their loyal good- 
will. Indeed the simile is not inapt. The dark- 
eyed Mattie, four years the elder, had in her 
disposition much of the staying, heart-warming 
quality of sunshine, while there was a refreshing 
breeziness about her sister which was ever wel- 
come and ever new. 

It had been something of a trial to Mrs. Ben 
Pratt, who was not without a sense of euphony, 
that the exigencies of family relationship should 
have obliged her to name her two daughters 
Martha and Harriet. The inevitableness of the 
descent to “Mattie” and “Hattie” could not 
be denied, and the hopeless lack of distinction in 
the reiteration of that flat a was very depressing 


205 


2o6 


Pratt Portraits. 


to a woman who was something of a connoisseur 
in names, having herself been born a Hazeldean. 
But Ben would not hear of calling the first 
daughter for any one but his wife, and when, 
four years later, the second girl appeared upon 
the scene, Mrs. Ben could do no less than re- 
ciprocate, by naming her for her husband’s eldest 
sister, Harriet. More especially since a boy, 
whose arrival had intervened, bore his mother’s 
maiden name of Hazeldean. By the exercise of 
great vigilance and determination Mrs. Ben suc- 
ceeded in keeping Hazeldean’ s name intact, but 
this effort so exhausted her energies that she 
yielded the “Mattie” and “Hattie” almost 
without a struggle. 

Names, however, owe their chief significance 
to the people who bear them, and it rarely 
occurred to any one but Mrs. Ben that the names 
Mattie Pratt and Hattie Pratt could be improved 
upon. 

On second thoughts that statement demands 
modification. Before the time of our story — when 
Mattie had reached the mature age of twenty- 
three — more than one young man had thought 
that his own surname might be substituted with 
advantage for hers. Unfortunately for these 
young men, Mattie had not been of the same 
mind. She had considered the claims of each 
candidate with a deliberateness, which in a less 
sincere and kindly young person might have 
been censured, and then she had skilfully trans- 


A Valentine. 


207 

formed the misguided aspirant into a more or less 
resigned friend. 

The nineteen-year old Hattie had, up to this 
time, boasted but one actual ‘ ‘ offer. ’ ’ It was on 
the day that Dickie Lewis first went into trousers, 
that he set himself to sue for the very sticky hand 
of his young contemporary in a gingham apron. 
This interesting scene occurred during the school 
recess, the maiden of his choice being at the 
moment engaged in eating molasses candy behind 
the currant bushes. A large piece of this delecta- 
ble concoction was rapidly reducing itself to its 
original consistency in her warm little grasp, 
while he made his declaration of undying devo- 
tion. Little Hattie gazed with the most flattering 
interest at Dicky in his newly acquired dignity. 
Those trousers were very imposing. But yet, but 
yet, she felt in her heart of hearts that she loved 
Jimmy Jones, with the court-plaster on his nose, 
better than she loved Dicky, and truth compelled 
her to say so. Touched by the hopelessness of 
Dicky’s case, she held out to him the whole big 
piece of molasses candy, and to her mingled relief 
and chagrin, he seized and devoured it, with 
an appetite unimpaired by his disappointment. 
Hattie Pratt’s faith in manly devotion had never 
recovered from that crushing blow. As she grew 
older she regarded the comings and goings of her 
sister’s lovers with a certain scepticism, and when 
any rash young man ventured to bestow upon 
her a sentimental word or look she remembered 


208 


Pratt Portraits, 


Dicky Lewis and laughed it oflf. Thus it will be 
seen how an early disenchantment may eat into 
the fabric of one’s faith in human nature. 

Among the frequenters of the Ben Pratt 
house, a stranger had recently enrolled himself, a 
stranger whose assiduity in calling once a week 
did not escape Hattie’s mocking criticism. He 
was the new head-master of the high-school, a 
tall, grave-looking individual, who wore glasses 
and limped slightly. Indeed, his limp was so 
very slight that the irreverent Hattie concluded 
that his shoes were too tight for him. 

Mr. Emerson Swain, for such was his classic 
name, had seemed so particularly fitted for his 
post as schoolmaster, and so entirely unfitted to 
play any lighter r61e, that his arrival in town had 
occasioned very little comment or inquiry. Noth- 
ing was known of him beyond the fact that he 
had come highly recommended by the authorities 
of a Western college, that his learning was prob- 
ably profound, and his social talents correspond- 
ingly limited. On the occasion of his first appear- 
ance at a social gathering in Dunbridge he had 
made the acquaintance of the Pratt girls, and, to 
every one’s amusement, it became evident that he 
had straightway fallen a victim to Mattie’s charms. 
With old-fashioned punctiliousness, he had, a few 
days later, sought an introduction to Mrs. Ben, and 
askedpermissiontocallupon herself and her daugh- 
ters. From that time forward he was a weekly 
visitor at their house. He usually came on Sat- 


A Valentine, 


209 


urday evening, as a reward, Hattie declared, for 
having “ tried all the week to be good.” It was 
his habit to remain exactly one hour, which time 
was passed in conversation with Mattie and the 
elder members of the family. Hattie, who had 
no mind to allow herself to be shut out in the 
cold, and who usually sat by with Dixie, the 
fox-terrier, in her lap, used occasionally to throw 
in a light-minded observation, thus giving an 
unexpected turn to the conversation, and causing 
Mr. Emerson Swain to gaze benignantly at her 
through his spectacles. ” It is such fun to make 
him blink at me, ’ ’ the bad child would say, when 
remonstrated with by her family. 

Mr. Swain’s conversation was quite worth lis- 
tening to in a very different spirit from that which 
Hattie deigned to honor it with. Mrs. Ben 
maintained that he had ‘ ‘ the best informed 
mind ’ ’ she had ever met with, and she confided 
to her mother-in-law, Old Eady Pratt, that she 
almost hoped that Mattie might fancy him. 

“ It ’s high time she fancied somebody ! ” the 
old lady had declared, true as always to her faith 
in early marriages. Mattie, for her part, listened 
most politely and attentively to all the school- 
master had to say, responding in a ladylike man- 
ner, which seemed to give him entire satisfaction, 
if one might judge by the regularity of his visits. 
She did not acknowledge, even to her family, that 
she found such elevated conversation a trifle 
tedious. 


14 


2 lO 


Pratt Portraits, 


‘ ‘ Why do you stay in the room when Mr. 
Swain calls?” she would ask Hattie. “You 
might just as well be amusing yourself in the 
library.” 

“Oh, but he amuses me,” Hattie would cry. 
“ He ’s just nuts ! He arranges his sentences so 
beautifully, and his spectacles look so owlish. 
Do you know, Mattie, he seems a great deal too 
old and solemn to fall in love.” 

“Very likely he is,” assented Mattie, for the 
two girls had agreed between themselves that he 
must be “well over thirty.” “There is n’t 
any question of his falling in love, as far as I 
know.” 

Now Hattie Pratt, though not of a literary 
turn of mind, had a certain knack with her pen, 
which had stood her in good stead in more than 
one of the small crises of her lively existence. One 
day in February she might have been seen curled 
up in the cushioned window-seat of the parlor, in 
close consultation with the lyric muse. It was a 
Sunday afternoon, and she had some misgivings 
as to the godliness of her undertaking. But, 
unfortunately for her Sabbath-day morals, an 
incident had occurred on the previous evening 
which had filled her with thoughts of vengeance, 
whose execution would no longer be deferred. 

Mr. Swain had been speaking of one of the 
assistant teachers at the high-school, the teacher 
who had the misfortune to stutter as often as he 
became at all agitated, and Hattie, who was a nat- 


A Valentine. 


2II 


ural mimic, could not let pass such an opportunity 
for the display of her powers. At mention of the 
young man’s name, she cried, in excellent imita- 
tion of him: “ B-b-boys ! Such b-b-behavior 
is inexc-c-cusable.” 

Their visitor had looked at her reproachfully 
through his glasses, and had said, with most 
uncalled-for emphasis : ‘ ‘ Yes, Miss Hattie, it is 

a cruel infirmity.” 

For once, Hattie’s ready wit had deserted her. 
To her consternation and disgust, she felt the 
blood rush to her face, and she dropped her eyes 
before those penetrating spectacles, in unwilling 
acknowledgment of defeat. She shuddered even 
now as she thought of her discomfiture, and then 
she wet the point of her pencil on the tip of her 
small, unruly tongue, and applied herself with 
renewed concentration to the work of vengeance. 
The day had been beautiful. The level rays 
of the sun, which was sinking in the west, fell 
aslant of Hattie’s curly brown head, revealing a 
picturesque disorder, which frequent wild clutches 
for inspiration had wrought. With her feet drawn 
up under her, and her head bent over her work, 
all semblance of her graceful little person was 
lost. Suddenly her brow cleared, her pencil 
raced over the paper, and, with a sigh of success- 
ful accomplishment, she sat up straight, extend- 
ing her slippered feet to the end of the cushion, 
leaned her head against the casement, and fell to 
reading her effusion : 


212 


Pratt Portraits, 


“TO MY CHOSEN SWAIN. 

“ Kneel not at another’s shrine, 

Rather come and kneel at mine. 

Black eyes cold and cruel be, 

Black eyes are not meant for thee. 

What my name, and what the hue 
Of my eyes, I ’d tell thee true. 

But, too timid to confess, 

I must leave thy wit to guess, — 

Guess the secret that is thine. 

If thou wilt be my Valentine.’’ 

“ There ! If that does n’t make him blink his 
conceited old eyes,” she thought, with vengeful 
glee. 

The sun was already cut in two by the line of 
a black hill on the horizon. Hattie turned and 
looked straight into the golden disk. Her strong 
young eyes, which had fallen before a certain 
pair of spectacles, did not waver in the face of 
the god of day. Her cheeks were flushed from 
the mental strain of composition, and her eyes 
were bright. As the sun dropped behind the 
hill a golden light crept up into the sky, higher 
and higher, and then the most beautiful waves of 
color spread themselves along the line of low 
hills. The young face softened, the lips that had 
been so firmly compressed relaxed into their 
natural sweet expression, and a dreamy, far- 
away look came into the dark-blue eyes. The 
splendors of the sunset deepened and grew, and 
then the color faded, and the last uncertain light 


A Valentine, 


213 


fell upon the face of a sleeping child, a face 
where long dark lashes fringed the closed lids, 
and a mouth as innocent as a baby’s was parted 
in a half smile. 

When Hattie awoke, however, at the lighting 
of the gas, the spirit of mischief awoke with her. 
For though her face had softened when the sun- 
set color swept the sky, her hard little heart had 
not changed one bit. 

She ran to her own room where she would be 
safe from disturbance, and there she copied her 
verses in an elaborately disguised hand. For to- 
morrow would be St. Valentine’s day, and the 
shot must be fired early in the morning. 

Accordingly, when her father was starting, the 
next day, to drive into the city, she gave him the 
letter ‘ ‘ to post in town. ’ ’ Ben, to whom all girls’ 
scrawls looked exactly alike, did not observe 
anything peculiar about the handwriting, and 
readily undertook to do his daughter’s bidding. 
Ben was a fairly obedient father in all small mat- 
ters, and as such was a great favorite with his 
children. As the day went by Hattie was full 
of self-glorification. 

‘ ‘ He may not get it till to-morrow, ’ ’ she re- 
flected, “but he will know it was sent to-day, 
and won’t he be puzzled ? Oh ! I am so glad I 
did it ! I am so glad I did it ! ” 

Poor Hattie ! Her joy was to be short-lived ! 

“ Father, did you post my letter ? ” she asked, 
as she helped him off with his great-coat that 


214 


Pratt Portraits. 


evening. Mr. Ben Pratt’s face was red and his 
whiskers prickly with the frost as Hattie had dis- 
covered when she kissed him a moment before. 
The dutiful father beamed with inward satisfac- 
tion, as he rubbed his hands together to get them 
warm. 

“Better than that! Better than that!” he 
answered. “ I met Mr. Swain just as I turned 
into Main Street, and for once I had my wits 
about me.” 

“ You did n’t give him the letter ! ” cried Hat- 
tie, in breathless suspense. 

“That ’s just what I did do,” her father 
answered, complacently. “I told him it was 
something my daughter Hattie had asked me 
to post, and I thought perhaps he could find the 
owner, ’ ’ and Ben passed on into the warm library 
without a glance at the miserable little victim of 
his ill-judged zeal. 

Hattie meanwhile had fled up-stairs, with pert 
little Dixie close at her heels. As she shut the 
chamber door behind her, Dixie, at the risk of his 
life, dashed in, giving a squeal of anguish as the 
door nipped his tail. 

‘ ‘ O Dixie, you poor little angel, ’ ’ she cried, 
seizing the small imp in her arms, ‘ ‘ did I squeeze 
his tail in the door ? Oh ! how could I ? ” and 
she tenderly laid him on the bed, and knelt be- 
side him, incoherent and distracted. “ O Dixie I 
Dixie ! That horrid man ! And your poor little 
tail ! And he knows who wrote it ! And he will 


A Valentine. 


^15 

think ! — oh ! what won’t he think ! And how it 
must have hurt, you poor little martyr. And oh, 
dear, how I wish I was dead ! O Dixie ! Dixie ! 
did it hurt very bad ? 

All this time the ‘ ‘ poor little martyr ’ ’ was 
beating the coverlid with his injured tail, and in- 
dustriously licking his mistress’ nose and chin 
and eyebrows, saying, as plainly as he knew 
how, that he had forgotten all about his tail, and 
the best thing she could do would be to forget all 
about that horrid man too. And then the sup- 
per bell rang, and Hattie had to wash away the 
traces of her tears and go down and face her 
family, Dixie following close behind. At supper 
Hattie seemed to be in hilarious spirits, which 
her family attributed to the half-dozen valentines 
she had received in the course of the day. She 
chattered like a magpie, and gave Hazeldean tit 
for tat in a manner that delighted her father, and 
caused her mother to wonder whether she would 
never grow up. But all the while a certain fool- 
ish bit of doggerel was ringing in her ears, send- 
ing the blood in sudden tingling waves up among 
the curls in her forehead. 

“ Guess the secret that is thine. 

If thou wilt be my Valentine.” 

Ugh-h— 

“ Black eyes are not meant for thee.” 

Oh ! how hideous it all was ! How perfectly 
hideous ! 


2i6 


Pratt Portraits, 


The next day went by, and the world had not 
come to an end. Wednesday came, and Thurs- 
day, and Hattie began to wish that something 
would happen, if only to end this wretched sus- 
pense. And then on Friday something did 
happen. 

It had been raining hard all day. The streets 
were rivers and the side-walks ponds. Hattie 
had been shut up in the house for so many hours 
that she suddenly discovered that she could not 
bear it another minute. She declared her inten- 
tion of going out for a walk, and, wrapped in a 
long waterproof cloak, with the hood over her 
head, she was soon splashing along the sidewalk 
in her rubber boots, the excitable Dixie racing 
on ahead and barking wildly. She did not carry 
an umbrella. Waterproof cloaks had only lately 
come into fashion, and the owner of one would 
have scorned an umbrella. 

The rain splashed in her face and collected in 
the ‘ ‘ puckers ’ ’ of her hood. Her hair lay in 
spirals, beaten flat against her wet forehead. 
She trudged along, enjoying this conflict with 
the elements as much as she could enjoy any- 
thing just then. She looked at the gambols of 
Dixie with the melancholy indulgence with which 
an aged person regards the sports of children. 
Still that miserable jingle pursued her, echoing 
through her brain with senseless persistency. 

“ Kneel not at another’s shrine. 

Rather come and kneel at mine.” 


A Valentine. 


217 


Would she ever touch pen to paper again? 
No ! Never ! Never ! Never ! 

She was out on the long bridge now that led to 
the city. She did not often get so far as that in 
her walks, even on a fair day. Here the wind 
had room to rage, unimpeded by trees or build- 
ings. She bent her head and fought her way in 
the teeth of the storm, looking neither to the 
right nor to the left, where, on either side of the 
bridge, the great sheets of ice were being tossed 
upon the dark waters. 

Suddenly Dixie gave a joyful bark of recogni- 
tion, and a pair of long legs, clad in much-be- 
spattered trousers, appeared a few feet away, in 
the line of her down bent vision. She steered off 
to the right, but the legs stood still, and an 
alarmingly familiar voice exclaimed : 

“ Why ! Miss Hattie ! Where are you going ? ” 

“ I am going for a walk, Mr. Swain,” she said, 
distinctly, trying to pass him by. 

“ For a walk ? My child, are you crazy ? You 
will get blown off the bridge ! ’ ’ 

He had turned and was walking by her side. 
She said nothing, but pushed on faster and 
faster. 

“ I see you are trying to get away from me,” 
he remarked, as he easily kept alongside of her, 
in spite of his slightly limping gait. 

” I came out to have a walk by myself,” she 
shouted back, for the wind was roaring. 

‘ ‘ I shall not let you walk alone on this 


Pratt Portraits. 


218 

bridge, ’ ’ he declared. His tone of calm authority 
exasperated her. 

“ I don’t know what right you have to force 
your company upon me,” cried Hattie, lifting 
her face defiantly, unmindful of the storm that 
beat upon it. 

He looked down upon her, as he walked by her 
side, and quietly took in the picture. The slen- 
der figure battling with the storm, the crimson 
cheeks and sparkling eyes, the rain-drenched 
hair, the tiny waterfalls on the end of her nose 
and chin. The wind suddenly subsided, and it 
became so quiet that he could hear the splash of 
the water, as she resolutely tramped along. 

“ I have the best right in the world to take 
care of you,” he said, in a low, penetrating voice, 

‘ ‘ because I love you. ’ ’ 

“You don’t, you know you don’t!” cried 
Hattie, with such vociferous denial that Dixie 
felt called upon to interfere, and sprang wildly 
about her and upon her. 

The wind had risen again, and her tormentor 
shouted : “ Won’t you please turn back now ? ” 

Mechanically she turned, and having the wind 
at their backs, they went on faster than before. 
But the bridge seemed to Hattie perfectly inter- 
minable. On and on she tramped, with the rain 
beating upon her shoulders like a hundred 
hands. Would she never get away from this 
“dreadful man,’’ keeping pace with her so per- 
sistently, and knowing that she knew that he had 


A Valentine, 


219 


said those horrible, those insulting words. For 
what was it but an insult to tell her that he 
loved her, when she knew it was just because he 
had been so stupidly conceited as to think she 
was in earnest when she wrote that wretched 
valentine. 

At last they left the bridge and passed on into 
the town, where they were somewhat sheltered 
from the storm. They were still two miles from 
home. Not a creature was moving in the streets 
besides the rain-drenched trio, man and girl and 
dog. They might as well have been on a desert 
island, for any chances there were of interruption. 
And still he walked like a shadow at her side. 

“You contradicted me just now,” he said at 
last, firmly and deliberately, ‘ ‘ and so I must 
tell you again that I love you. I have loved you 
ever since I knew you, but I did not think I 
should tell you so. It was not very likely that 
you would ever care for a half-blind cripple like 
me. But at least I could see you often, and hear 
your voice, and know a little of what was pass- 
ing in your mind, and that was something. I 
even fancied that we might get to be friends 
some day. But when you sent me that valen- 
tine, although, of course, you never meant me to 
know who wrote it, I knew it was either one of 
two things — either you liked me a little, or you 
despised me. And though I am afraid I know 
your answer beforehand, I must have it. Hattie, 
am I right ? Was it one of those two things ? ” 


2 20 


Pratt Portraits, 


“You don't love me!” she cried again, with 
increasing vehemence. “You don't love me I 
You love somebody else I You have n’t any right 
to talk to me like that. You thought I meant 
that odious valentine. I did n’t mean it. No- 
body meant it. It was nothing at all.” 

“Hattie,” he cried, with a sudden access of 
anger, which was not altogether unbecoming ; 
“ Hattie, you shall not talk to me like that. You 
shall listen to me. You shall believe what I say ! 
I do love you — I love you with all my heart. I 
loved you the first time I ever saw you — I have 
thought of you from morning till night every day 
of my life since that day. I love you always — I 
love you when I am with you, and I love you 
when you are absent. I love you when you are 
sweet and kind, and I love you when you are — not 
sweet and kind. I love all your looks, and all 
your words — I would dare swear that I love all 
the thoughts you think ! ’ ’ 

On and on they tramped, through the rain and 
the mud, and on and on he talked. He, who 
usually “ arranged his sentences so beautifully,” 
could not seem to talk fast enough, to say what 
he had to say. She did not hear half his words. 
They were drowned and confused by the wind 
and the rain, by her own bewildering emotions. 
Only one terrible, overwhelming fact was borne 
in upon her guilty little soul. He did love her, 
and she could not help herself. 

At last they got to her own gate, and, with his 


A Valentine. 


221 


hand upon it, he said : “ Hattie ! Which is it ? 

Tell me once for all. Do you love me, or do 
you despise me ? ” 

Then Hattie lifted up her head and looked him 
full in the face, and said : “ Mr. Swain, / carCt 

bear you ! ” 

He opened the gate for her without another 
word, and, as she and Dixie passed through, he 
lifted his dripping hat and said good-bye. 

Her mother met her at the door, anxious over 
her long absence, and Hattie threw herself, wet 
waterproof and all, upon her mother’s neck, and 
cried : “ O Mother ! Mother ! He says he loves 

me ! That dreadful man ! ” 

‘ ‘ My child, what do you mean ? ’ ’ cried Mrs. 
Ben, thinking that Hattie had taken leave of her 
senses. Come up to your own room and get 
off these soaking things. ’ ’ 

They went up-stairs, followed by the faithful 
Dixie. 

“ He says he loves me. Mother,” she lamented 
again, as her mother pulled off her waterproof, 
and commanded her to change her shoes and 
stockings. 

‘ ‘ And your petticoats are wet through ! ’ ’ cried 
Mrs. Ben. Her motherly heart was in much 
greater terror of colds than of lovers, which latter 
dispensation was in the natural order of things, 
and could not be averted. 

It was not until the child was clothed again 
that her mother was ready to believe that she 


222 


Pratt Portraits, 


was also in her right mind, and then she sat 
down beside her, prepared for confidences. 

But, the first rush of feeling being over, Hattie 
did not find it so easy to tell her story. .She 
looked at Dixie as though she thought he might 
help her out of the difficulty. But Dixie, who 
evidently felt that one exciting scene was all that 
his nerves could bear, had curled himself up in a 
corner and sought refuge in slumber. 

“ Well, Hattie, now what is it ? ” 

‘ ‘ Nothing, Mother, only he told me he loved 
me for more than two miles. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Hattie Pratt ! ’ ’ cried Mrs. Ben, reduced to 
extremity. “ If you don’t tell me who it is that 
has been talking nonsense to you in all this mud 
and slosh — Pit shake you ! ” 

This, though unquestionably a little mortifying 
to a young lady who had just received a declara- 
tion, was well calculated to recall her to her 
senses. And Hattie, with the frankness which 
was one of her brightest virtues, told her mother 
the whole story from beginning to end, palliating 
nothing, excusing nothing. 

Mrs. Ben heroically suppressed her inclination 
to smile at this rather comical tale of woe, and, 
faithful to her sense of duty, said, severely : 
“ And now you have got your deserts.” 

“O Mother! I did n’t deserve anything so 
bad as that I ” Hattie protested. “ How can you 
say I deserved anything so bad as that ? ’ ’ 

“Well,” rejoined Mrs. Ben, “I think myself 


A Valentine, 


223 


you have been sufficiently punished.” She 
looked for a moment at the woe-begone face 
of the culprit, and then she said, consolingly : 
” Hattie, I don’t believe he was as serious as he 
thought for, if that ’s any comfort to you. He 
has probably tried to make himself think he is in 
love with you, just to spare your feelings. Any 
gentleman would feel bound to do what he could 
in such a situation, — and Mr. Swain is a gentle- 
man, if he is a little stiff in his manners. ’ ’ 

” I think. Mother,” Hattie replied, with con- 
scious dignity, ‘ ‘ that if you had heard him talk, 
you would not have any doubt about his being in 
earnest. ’ ’ 

Nor did Hattie ever admit any question on that 
point. Emerson Swain’s words, and still more 
his manner, had been too convincing. She could 
not mistake the accent of sincerity with which he 
had said: “I love you.” Gradually the first 
horror with which those words had filled her 
wore away, and she began to think of them with 
something very like toleration. It was as though 
they were repeated over and over every day, so 
haunting was the tone of voice in which they had 
been spoken. After all, he was a man, this grave, 
self-contained schoolmaster. It was a man’s love 
that had been offered her, and not a boyish fancy. 
There was something wonderfully stirring in his 
honest passion, which had asserted itself so stoutly, 
in spite of his self-distrust and genuine humble- 
mindedness. She could not forget his words — she 


224 


Pratt Portraits, 


could not forget him, though she saw no more of 
him in the weeks that followed. A strange hu- 
mility had come over her. She began to feel as 
though an honor had befallen her, of which she 
had shown herself unworthy. She had not been 
enough of a woman to accept it, or even to appre- 
ciate it ; but if she had been a great deal older 
and a great deal wiser, she might have taken it 
differently. She was sorry he did not come to 
the house any more. His conversation had really 
been very interesting. She would not have un- 
derstood anything about the Mexican coloniza- 
tion scheme, and the tragic fate of Maximilian 
and Carlotta, if it had not been for Mr. Swain. 
He had promised, too, to take them all over to see 
the glass-works some day. She would have been 
glad to see the glass-works. Nobody else would 
ever think of taking them there. None of the 
young men they knew seemed to be interested in 
anything but themselves and their own concerns. 

Perhaps Hattie might not have drawn so many 
comparisons in favor of her lame and spectacled 
suitor if his society had been thrust upon her. 
But ever since that eventful walk he had studi- 
ously avoided her. The blustering winter months 
had stormed themselves out, April, with all its 
sweet caprices, had gone the way of other tears 
and smiles, and now May had come, bringing 
young leaves and dandelions, and making green 
the lawns and hedges. And in all that time Mr. 
Emerson Swain had only once come to the house. 


A Valentine, 


225 


That was on an evening when he knew perfectly 
well that Mattie and Hattie had gone to a dance, 
and he made no pretence of having come to call 
on any one but their mother. Mrs. Ben had en- 
joyed his visit very much. She had found him 
so talkative and easy — not nearly so stiff in his 
manners as he used to be — that she felt justified 
in assuring Hattie that if he had ever suffered 
from any disappointment he must have got over 
it entirely. 

But Hattie knew better. That faith in the im- 
mortality of love, which most young girls cherish, 
had asserted itself in her heart. Emerson Swain, 
who had given up the game with a half-pitiful, 
wholly-contemptuous smile at his own expense, 
would have been surprised and touched if he had 
suspected anything of the almost passionate loy- 
alty with which his scornful little divinity believed 
in him. 

Meanwhile the last of May had come, and Dec- 
oration Day was close at hand. Decoration Day, 
which meant so much when first it was celebrated, 
soon after the close of the war. It seemed that 
year as though the very fiowers knew why they 
bloomed, and pressed forward to meet the day. 
In the fields about Dunbridge the daisies and but- 
tercups ran riot, and all the brooksides were blue 
with long-stemmed violets. Brilliant columbines 
grew about the rocks, and fragile wood anemones 
and hardy cornel blossoms hid side by side in the 

woods. All the young people of the town had 
15 


226 


Pratt Portraits, 


been out gathering them, and now, in the late 
afternoon, a score of them were met together in 
the high-school building, to weave their flowers 
into wreaths, and sword-hilts, and crosses. The 
next day the boys and girls would walk in pro- 
cession, led by the little company of veterans, to 
lay the fading offerings upon the soldiers’ graves. 
The youngest child who was to carry a posy 
could remember the war. There was no need to 
tell him what all these flowery tributes meant. 

The group of young people in the schoolhouse 
worked together, subdued and solemnized by the 
memories the day recalled, and when the work 
was done they quietly dispersed, carrying their 
flowers with them to be kept fresh till morning. 
On the way home Hattie Pratt remembered that 
she had left her scissors behind her. She slipped 
away from the others, and, burdened with flowers 
as she was, she ran back alone to the school- 
house. About her neck was a garland of daisies, 
a wreath of buttercups hung from her wrist, while 
other wreaths and garlands filled her arms. 

Her light step made little sound as she ran up 
the stairs and into the great hall, the door of which 
was open. There among the litter of bright blos- 
soms and green leaves stood Emerson Swain, — 
with his hands behind him looking down. In 
her haste Hattie had come close upon him before 
she saw him. She gave a little cry of consterna- 
tion and started to leave the room. He too looked 
disconcerted, but when she turned to go he pulled 


A Valentine. 


227 


himself together and said very composedly, 
“ Don’t let me drive you away, Miss Hattie. 
You have come back for something. ” 

“ Only my scissors,” she stammered, “but it 
is n’t of the least consequence.” 

“ Det me help you find them.” 

And he began moving the fallen leaves and 
petals about with his cane. The scissors soon 
turned up. As he handed them to her he said : 

“ You will perhaps be glad to hear — that is, if 
you care about it one way or the other — that I am 
going away for good in July. I have not told any 
one yet, for my new appointment was only settled 
this morning. ’ ’ 

Hattie stood still in helpless embarrassment. 
She felt that she must say something. She could 
not go away leaving such an announcement as 
that in mid-air. It would be too cowardly. At 
last she gave a constrained little laugh, and asked, 
inconsequently : 

“ What do you think of all this clutter in your 
schoolroom, Mr. Swain ? ’ ’ 

He hesitated a moment — 

“ Would you like to know what I was thinking 
when you came in ? I was wondering whether 
the fellows who got killed did not have the best 
of it after all. Whether it was not better, for in- 
stance, than hobbling through life ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But — ^but — you were not in the war ? ’ ’ cried 
Hattie, suddenly forgetting her embarrassment 
and self-consciousness. 


228 


Pratt Portraits, 


“ And why not? ” 

“ And did you get ” 

Yes — I got shot.” 

Her eyes were big with wonder. 

“Oh! please tell me about it. When did it 
happen ? How did it happen ? ’ ’ 

“It happened early in the war — 1 got well 
enough to go back again. ’ ’ 

“ You went back again after you had got 
shot?” 

“ Of course I did. I was not such a cripple 
that I could not serve. A lame leg,” he added 
bitterly, ‘ ‘ disables a man more in after life than it 
does in action. Men respect their captain none 
the less for being a little damaged.” 

‘ ‘ Oh I What did they do to thank you ? ’ ’ 

He looked down upon the glowing young face 
rising up out of the garland of daisies, and he 
wished she would go home and not stay there look- 
ing like that. But he said in a matter-of-fact voice : 

“They treated me very well— they made me a 
colonel before we got through.” 

‘ ‘ A colonel I How brave you must have been 1 ’ ’ 
And then, as she stood before him and met his 
eyes, into which a look had come which she did 
not quite understand, her self-consciousness came 
rushing back upon her, and she turned abruptly 
and awkwardly enough and left him. 

She went down stairs and out into the long yel- 
low sunlight, thinking new and solemn thoughts. 
It was the first time that Hattie had ever been 


A Valentine. 


229 


brought face to face with a personal heroism that 
rose above the commonplace of every day. It 
appealed to all her enthusiasm — all her idealism. 
It touched her as nothing else could have done, it 
made a woman of her. And yet she was still so 
much a child that her mood changed from moment 
to moment, her thoughts flew from great things 
to small, and all the while she never dreamed 
whither she was tending. 

He had been in the war. He had stood his 
ground when the bullets whistled about him, 
when men fell dead on every side. He had been 
wounded, crippled, and then he had gone back 
and faced the bullets again. And Hazeldean had 
dared to call him “ a muff*.” And she ! And she ! 
Oh ! What had she been thinking of to treat him 
so ! And she might never see him again. If he 
had avoided her for three months it was not likely 
that he would do any diff*erently in the little time 
remaining. But she must ask his forgiveness. 
She could not let him go away forever with those 
contemptuous words to remember. He had 
offered her the devotion of a brave man, and like 
a petulant child she had flung back the proff*ered 
gift with scorn and contumely. 

Then, as a sudden anti-climax, came the memory 
of certain foolish words she had once spoken. 
Oh ! dreadful thought ! She had said his shoes 
were too tight for him ! That smote her con- 
science more cruelly than all the rest, and without 
knowing when she had turned, she found herself 


230 


Pratt Portraits. 


hurrying back to the schoolhouse, with a wild 
terror lest he should be gone, and she should have 
lost her last chance to ask his forgiveness. 

She ran up the stairs and burst into the room. 
There he stood, where she had left him, looking 
at the flowers that her feet had trodden upon. 

“Mr. Swain!” she cried, still panting from 
her rapid walk, “Mr. Swain, I have come back 
because I was afraid I should never see you 
again, and I wanted to ask your pardon. ’ ’ 

He looked down upon her, very gravely and 
indulgently. 

“Ask my pardon for not liking me? You 
could not help it, little girl. There was no rea- 
son why you should have liked me. It was 
kinder to be truthful. ’ ’ 

“But I was so rude I Oh, I was so abom- 
inable. Won’t you please forgive me ? ” 

“ Miss Hattie,” he said, his voice vibrating in 
spite of all he could do, ‘ ‘ I will tell you some- 
thing that I hope you may never have to learn in 
any other way. When a man gets maimed for 
life he does not particularly care whether it was a 
gunshot or a swordcut that did it. ’ ’ 

“And you won’t forgive me?” There were 
tears in the beseeching childlike eyes, and yet, in 
the gesture of entreaty, a certain dignity which 
was more appealing still. 

“I don’t see anything to forgive,” he an- 
swered, with a strong effort to govern his voice. 

‘ ‘ But if it will make you any happier — yes — I 
forgive you.” 


A Valentine, 


231 

He held out a very cold hand, which she took, 
dropping some of her flowers at his feet. 

“ I am so sorry ! ” she said again, pleadingly, 
with her hand still in his. 

‘ ‘ Sorry you do not love me ? ’ ’ 

“Sorry I said I did n’t,” she whispered very, 
very softly. But Kmerson Swain thought he 
should have heard that whisper if he had been in 
battle, with the roar of the cannon in his ears. 

They walked home together in the long after- 
noon light, home to Ben and his wife, whom they 
found pacing the garden path arm in arm. These 
long-tried lovers looked incredulously at the 
apparition coming toward them. It was many 
weeks since they had seen this tall, limping flgure 
within their gates. Did that usually grave face 
ever before seem so young and animated ? did 
those gray eyes ever before send such a cheer- 
ful challenge through the intervening glasses ? 
And more perplexing still was their own Hattie, 
decked out like a sacrificial lamb, with a look of 
radiant meekness in her face, which yet was a 
little pale and awe-struck. 

She had not a word to say for herself, but Em- 
erson Swain was under no embarrassment. 

“ Mrs. Pratt,” he said, as they stopped before 
her, “Hattie has promised to be my Valentine 
henceforth and forever. ’ ’ 

* * * * * 

“ And I believe they will be very happy,” said 
Mrs. Ben to Mr. Ben, as they talked it over later 
in the evening. ‘ ‘ He is not exactly the kind of 


232 


Pratt Portraits, 


man I should have supposed Hattie would fancy, 
and she is rather scatter-brained to begin life as 
the wife of a college professor. But they love 
each other, and that is the principal thing.” 

“Yes, Martha. That is the principal thing. 
There ’s no doubt about that. I don’t suppose it 
really makes any difference in the end,” Ben 
added, with a chuckle of ill-disguised fatherly 
pride, “but, as far as I can make out, Hattie 
seems to have done most of the courting ! ” 


X. 


OI.D I.ADY PRATT. 

O LD lyADY PRATT was failing, and being 
a shrewd old lady, even at the age of 
ninety-one, she was very well aware of 
the fact. 

“ My faculties ain’t what they used to be,” she 
would say, with all her old decision in statement. 
“ I ain’t what I used to be, nor what my mother 
was at my age, and I ain’t goin’ to be flattered 
into thinkin’ I be.” 

Everybody liked Old Eady Pratt, though many 
people were a little afraid of her. Her bright, 
black eyes dimmed as old age crept upon her, but 
they rarely softened. The deep, clean-cut furrows 
in her dark face were the marks of alertness, 
good-sense, and humor, rather than of gentler 
qualities. A black ‘ ‘ front ’ ’ with a straight, un- 
compromising muslin ” part,” hid the grace and 
dignity of her white hairs. Her speech was 
always incisive, often piquant, but never tender. 
She sat so straight in her chair — thanking Heaven 
that she had a back of her own — that she never 
gave that impression of feebleness which makes 
old age so irresistible in its appeal to the kind- 


233 


234 


Pratt Portraits. 


hearted. Dr. Baxter, the oracle of the neighbor- 
hood, used to say of her, that she was “ keen as 
a brier,” and that was the accepted estimate. 
The respect in which she was held among her 
acquaintances was negatively indicated by the 
fact that nobody ever thought of calling her little, 
though her height was, in reality, a trifle short of 
five feet. 

She suffered no pain nor discomfort in her latter 
days, and she was willing enough to ‘ ‘ bide her 
time,” but after her ninetieth birthday she began 
to realize that life had lost something of its relish. 

‘ ‘ Grandma, ’ ’ said her great-grandchild Susie 
one day, ‘ ‘ when you are a hundred years old your 
name will be in all the papers.” 

The old lady turned her gleaming spectacles 
upon the rosy young person of sixteen, and a 
queer look came into her face. ‘ ‘ I hope my name 
will be in the papers before that, ’ ’ she said, curtly. 

” What do you mean. Grandma ? ” 

” Mean, child? Why, among the ‘ deaths and 
marriages,’ to be sure.” 

Miss Susie was rather a thoughtful child, and 
after gazing for a moment at the red flicker in the 
isinglass window of the stove, she said, ‘ ‘ Grand- 
ma, would you like to live your life all over again 
just as it has been ? ” 

“Yes, I should,” said Old Lady Pratt. “For 
one reason,” she added in a lower tone. 

‘ ‘ I should think it would make you tired to 
think of all those years.” 


235 


Old Lady Pratt. 

A wonderfully bright, youthful look came into 
the aged face. “Nothing could make me tired 
if your grandfather was alive again. But there ! 
What do you know about that ? ” 

“I wish I could remember Grandpa Pratt,” 
said the little girl, sympathetically. “Tell me 
about him.” 

“There is n’t much to tell. Only he was the 
best man that ever lived, I do believe. You ’ve 
seen his picter ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes. Grandma ; and it looks so much like 
Sir Walter Scott’s.” 

‘ ‘ He was a great reader of Scott, and had a 
very high opinion of his works. But I always 
said it was just as honorable a calling to be a 
builder of houses, like your great-grandfather, as 
to be putting up castles in the air that never kept 
the rain off anybody’s head.” 

There was a silence, during which the isinglass 
gave an occasional crackle, and once the whole 
body of the stove seemed to stretch itself and 
sigh profoundly. 

‘ ‘ Susie, ’ ’ said grandma, after a while, ‘ ‘ I hope 
you ain’t goin’ to be like your old-maid sisters. 
There ’s Bella, twenty-five years old last ’lection, 
with no more idea of marryin’ than she had ten 
years ago. Mark my words, child, a woman 
should be early married. Your grandfather was 
coxurtin’ me when I was your age, and at seven- 
teen I was a happy bride. ’ ’ 

“But, Grandma,” said Susie, deprecatingly, 


236 


Pratt Portraits. 


yet with a light-hearted laugh, there isn’t a 
single person courting me. What am I to do 
about it ? ” 

To the old lady it was no laughing matter. She 
frowned a little and looked slightly contemptuous. 
The rising generation seemed to her very slow 
and unenterprising, in spite of their railroads and 
telegraphs. Was a man more a man for being 
whisked over the earth’s surface at the rate of 
twenty miles an hour? Stuff! How many of 
them would walk from Framingham to Boston 
and back, as her grandfather had done, to fetch a 
betrothal ring for his sweetheart ? She wore the 
ring to-day, a thin gold circlet with the outlines 
of a coffin just discernible inside. The words, 
“ Till Death ” had worn quite away since it came 
into her possession. 

But Old Tady Pratt’s mind did not often dwell 
upon the rising generation and its shortcomings. 
Even the great-great-grandson, in whose small 
person the family beheld its fifth generation among 
the living, had but a transient hold upon her at- 
tention. From him her thoughts wandered to her 
own grandchildren and their pranks, and there 
were certain reminiscences, especially of Uncle 
James, the eldest, which the children were never 
tired of hearing. 

“ Grandma,” they would ask, “ how did that 
spot come on the ceiling ? ’ ’ 

Now there was in reality no spot whatever on 
the ceiling. It had had many a coat of white- 


Old Lady Pratt, 237 

wash in the last forty years, whose passage had 
left so little impression on the failing memory. 

“That spot!” Grandma would answer. “I 
can’t seem to see it very plain, but I guess that 
must be the spot your Uncle James made when 
he was a little boy. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why, how could he make a spot so high up ? ” 

“ He threw a spit-ball.” 

“ Why, Grandma I And what did you do to 
him?” 

‘ ‘ Do ? I boxed him ! ’ ’ 

This always came out with a snap, which de- 
lighted the souls of the children. 

‘ ‘ You did. Grandma ? Poor Uncle James ! ’ ’ 

“Poor Uncle James, indeed I He was as im- 
pudent a young rascal as ever lived.” 

‘ ‘ Why, what did he do ? ” 

‘ ‘ He looked up in my face and said, ‘ You 
Paddy 

Nothing could be better than grandma’s relish 
of this story. She was not a great talker, how- 
ever. In fact, her daily life was a peculiarly silent 
one, her only companion being her unmarried 
daughter, Betsy, whose deafness precluded all 
possibility of conversation. There had been a 
time when the old lady fretted a good deal about 
this. 

“It does seem to me,” she would say, “as 
though Betsy’s deafness would drive me crazy.” 
Or again, when very much vexed : “ I do believe 
it ain’t all dealBiess. The girl has n’t got any 


238 


Pratt Portraits. 


spunk, that ’s the trouble. If she had, she ’d 
make out to understand something now and then 
by her wits. ’ ’ 

But this had been when grandma was only 
seventy or eighty years old, and the impatience of 
youth was not yet wholly subdued. 

Now it was different. She had got used to see- 
ing the large, loosely built figure always at her 
side, with its slightly bobbing head, which had 
once been such an annoyance to her, and she had 
come to appreciate the unobtrusive virtues of a 
faithful slave. 

Aunt Betsy had not much spunk, it is true. 
Her wits seldom came to the assistance of her im- 
perfect faculties. But she knew all her mother’s 
needs and wishes by heart ; and the absolutely 
unswerving devotion, day by day, and hour by 
hour, of the sixty odd years of her life had come, 
by the mere process of accumulation, to have the 
weight and importance in the old lady’s mind 
which they deserved. The black eyes of the elder 
woman often looked approvingly at the meek old 
face in its pretty frame of soft gray curls. It was 
a pity that Betsy never knew that the reason she 
had not been allowed the dignity of a “ false 
front,” to which she had so ardently aspired, was 
because her mother thought her curls too pretty 
to be covered up. ’ ’ 

Once in a great while when Betsy had rendered 
her some especially timely service, the old lady 
had called her to her side to say : ” Betsy you ’re 


Old Lady Pratt. 


239 


a good girl. I don’t know what I should do 
without you.” And Betsy had gone about with 
a warm feeling at her heart for weeks after. 

Thanksgiving had always been a great day in 
the Pratt family, for then its scattered members 
came from far and near to keep the good old 
festival. Their numbers had years before out- 
grown the capacity of the little old house in 
Green Street, and the celebration had been trans- 
ferred to “Harriet’s.” 

Harriet was Mrs. Pratt’s eldest daughter, the 
widow of a rich man, and she dwelt in a very 
grand house, with a terraced lawn in front and a 
cupola atop, a house where any family might be 
proud to meet together. Her long, wide parlors, 
with their thick Turkey carpets and their red 
velvet furniture ; the large mirrors over the two 
black mantelpieces which were adorned with gilt 
candelabra hung with rainbow prisms ; the pier 
glasses at either end, multiplying indefinitely 
every object in the room ; the numerous oil-paint- 
ings which had the air of having been bought by 
the dozen ; — all this was very splendid indeed. 

And the queen of this palace on Thanksgiving 
Day was Grandma Pratt. Every one paid his 
respects first to her as she sat bolt-upright in the 
stiff, high-backed “Governor Winthrop” arm- 
chair. Aunt Harriet took but a secondary place 
in her own house on that day. 

It was as queen of the New England feast that 
the old lady’s memory always lived in the minds 


240 


Pratt Portraits, 


of her descendants, perhaps because she was more 
“herself” on the last Thanksgiving of her life 
than at any time later. 

The great dinner with its many courses may 
have seemed a little long to her, though she drank 
her annual glass of sherry with the old relish ; 
but it was when they all gathered for a frolic in 
the brightly lighted parlors that she seemed most 
thoroughly in her element. 

She joined in the quieter games, such as “ But- 
ton, button,” and “Neighbor, neighbor,” and 
grew much excited over the traditional ‘ ‘ Blind- 
man ’s Buff,” which she witnessed from a remote 
comer of the room, Aunt Betsy sitting by to ward 
off the impetuous “Blind Man” when he made 
too wild a dash in their direction. 

When the young people were tired of romping 
— they were all young people to Old Tady Pratt — 
they gathered about in a far-reaching circle, and 
clamored for grandma’s stories of their fathers 
and grandfathers, and of her own youth. 

It was a pretty sight : the wide circle of faces, 
— old and young, dark and fair, all focusing 
upon one point — upon that small, upright figure 
which time had failed to bend ; upon those 
clear-cut, animated features which ninety years 
had not subdued. It was a picture which the 
children, old and young, never forgot, and no 
Sibyl of ancient days was ever listened to with 
more rapt attention than Old Tady Pratt. 

Tast of all came the dance, which was the 


Old Lady Pratt, 


241 


crowning pleasure of the gala-day. As the circle 
of her listeners dispersed, Uncle James came up 
to Grandma Pratt, and with old-time gallantry 
invited her to lead the Virginia reel with him. 
After coquetting a little, as she always did, and 
reminding him that she was an old woman, she 
suffered herself to be led to the end of the room, 
and, as the long lines were forming, her little old 
feet tapped the floor impatiently, and her eyes 
grew bright behind her gold-bowed spectacles. 
Mary Anne, who was generally conceded to be the 
“unselfish ” member of the family, went to the 
Chickering grand piano, and struck up the jolly 
old jig, not too fast (as it is often played nowa- 
days), but allowing time for the “ steps.” 

Grandma moved lightly forward, and made the 
preliminary courtesy to her opposite grandson in 
a manner which should have been a lesson to a 
degenerate age. She had no more admiring spec- 
tator than Aunt Betsy, who could not dance her- 
self, because it made her head swim, and who 
watched her mother with a sort of awe as she 
wound in and out in the mazes of the figure, her 
step brisk, her head erect, and cap-strings flying. 
Then came the march, grandma leading her half 
of the procession with great spirit, a light flush 
coming on her old face, her eyes shining brighter 
and blacker than ever, while the merry train of 
revellers clapped their palms together and gayly 
shouted. Then they all joined hands and formed 
a continuous arch the whole length of the long 

16 


242 


Pratt Portraits. 


room, and Old Lady Pratt, with her favorite 
grandson at her side, passed down between her 
children and her children’s children for the last 
time. 

She panted a little when they reached the foot 
of the row, and James said, “ I don’t know how 
yon feel, Grandma, but I ’m kind o’ tuckered out. 
Let ’s go and look on.” 

“That ’s a fib, James Spencer,” she answered, 
sharply. “You think I ’m tired and need to 
rest.” 

“ You, Grandma ? You never get tired. We 
all know that. But it ’s because you ’re so light 
on your feet. I guess you would be tired, though, 
if you ’d gained fifteen pounds in a year, as I 
have.” 

And he escorted her resolutely to the straight- 
backed arm-chair, which she was glad enough to 
take, since she had not been obliged to “give in.” 

It was but a week after this Thanksgiving Day, 
on which she had seemed so young and gay, that 
Old Lady Pratt gave Aunt Betsy a great fright by 
not getting up to breakfast. It was an event 
without a precedent, and the fact that she only 
owned to feeling a little ‘ ‘ rheumaticky ’ ’ did not 
reassure her anxious daughter. 

Immediately after the untasted breakfast, Eliza 
was despatched to summon Harriet, and Harriet 
was soon at her mother’s bedside. 

She found the old lady seeming very well and 
bright, and quite scorning the idea of calling in 


243 


Old Lady Pratt, 

Dr. Baxter. Rheumatism, if rheumatism it was, 
was an entirely new guest in the sound old frame, 
and Harriet did not quite believe in it. 

Just as she was about to leave her mother she 
said, abruptly : ‘ ‘ Have you done anything to 
strain yourself, Mother? It don’t seem quite 
natural for you to give out all at once so. Come, 
tell me.” 

The old lady looked up at her from among her 
feather pillows and said, rather petulantly : 
“You always was a sight smarter ’n Betsy. I 
sometimes think you ’re a leetle too smart.” 

Harriet sat down again, not ill pleased to be 
thus taxed with an excess of smartness. 

“ Tell me about it. Mother.” 

“That ’s jest as I choose,” said the old lady, 
with some defiance in her tone. “ Will you 
promise not to tell anybody ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Of course I will if you say so. Did you fall 
on the ice ? ” 

“Not exactly.” 

Then, with a curious manner, half-reluctant, 
half-amused, she said : “ I went out into the kit- 
chen yesterday afternoon when Eliza was up attic 
changin’ her gown, and there was that curtain 
over the sink all askew ag’in. I ’ve spoke to that 
girl about it forty times if I have once, and I was 
too mad to speak the forty-fust time. So I thought 
I ’d fix it myself and it might be a lesson to her.” 

“ But, Mother, you could n’t reach it ! You ’re 
not tall enough.” 


244 


Pratt Portraits, 


‘ ‘ A pretty state of things it would be if we 
could n’t get hold of anything that was out of our 
reach ! ’ ’ the old lady retorted, with ready para- 
dox. But she did not seem to want to go on. 

“ Well, what did you do ? ” 

“Do? What would anybody do? I got a 
chair and climbed up on the edge of the sink.” 

“ Dear me ! And did you strain yourself? ” 
“No. I had a fall. But I fixed that curtain 
fust ; straighter ’n it had been fer some time.” 

“ And you fell onto the floor, all that distance ? 
I don’t wonder you feel lame.” 

“Well, no” — and here the reluctance became 
more evident, — “ I fell into the sink ! ” 

She looked defiantly at her daughter, as though 
daring her to laugh. This the daughter had no 
inclination to do. 

‘ ‘ But, Mother, how did you ever get out ? ’ ’ she 
asked anxiously. 

“ Oh, I got out easy enough. But I felt kind 
o’ stiff this momin’,” she admitted, after a pause, 
“ and I thought I ’d see how you ’d all take it if I 
was to lay abed for once in my life. But mind 
you don’t let on to anybody,” she added, more 
sharply. “ I ain’t goin’ to be the laughin’ -stock 
of the neighborhood in my declinin’ years. ’ ’ 

The old lady was about again in a day or two, 
but she was pretty lame after this, and, indeed, she 
never seemed quite the same again. She would 
sometimes fall asleep in her chair — a thing which 
she had never been known to do before — and 


Old Lady Pratt, 245 

she was always mortified and vexed when she 
awoke. 

One afternoon she started up suddenly from a 
nap, saying, “ Betsy, what did you say ? ” 

“ What is it. Mother? ” said Betsy, turning her 
head to listen. 

“What did you say f ” asked the old lady. 

‘ ‘ Nothin’ , Mother, nothin’ . ’ ’ 

The strained voice became a little querulous. 
‘ ‘ Betsy, I ask you what was you a- talkin’ about ? ’ ’ 

“Nothin’, Mother, nothin’ at all.’’ 

Then a flash of anger, her last fit of “temper,’’ 
lit up the old eyes, and she cried, ‘ ‘ What was 
you a-thinkin' of ? ’ ’ 

“Nothin’, Mother, nothin’,” declared the be- 
wildered Betsy. 

“ Betsy, I heard ye f screamed the baffled old 
lady ; and she sank back exhausted, only to fall 
asleep again in a few minutes. 

Yes, Old Tady Pratt was breaking up. She 
did not ‘ ‘ take to her bed, ’ ’ as the saying is. She 
died one morning before “ sun-up.” 

For a few days before her death she kept her own 
room, sitting, still upright, in the stuffed chair, in 
her sunny south window. It was January, and 
the snow lay glittering on the ground. 

“I like it; it ’s so bright and cheerful,” she 
declared, when they asked her if it was not too 
dazzling. 

Betsy did not leave her side for several days 
and nights, till at last Harriet insisted upon 


246 


Pratt Portraits, 


taking her place for what proved to be the last 
night. 

She arrived, escorted by one of her grandsons, 
early in the evening, and they went directly up 
the narrow stairs. As they reached the upper 
landing they heard a strange sound — an aged, 
quavering voice crooning a lullaby. 

The door of the bedroom stood open, and a 
candle was burning dimly. The old lady sat 
in her stuffed chair, with her faithful daughter 
close beside her. She held one of Betsy’s hands, 
which she stroked softly from time to time, as 
she sang, in a high, broken treble, to the old tune 
of “Greenville” : 

“ Hush, my child ; lie still and slumber ; 

Holy angels guard thy sleep.” 

Betsy, alas ! could not hear the familiar lullaby, 
but she felt the caressing touch. The gray head 
nodded gently, as was its wont ; but the passive 
look upon the patient face, across which the light 
of the candle flickered, had given place to one of 
deep content. 

Harriet and the boy turned and crept down the 
stairs again, the boy hushed and embarrassed, 
Harriet crying softly to herself. 

“I’m glad I came,” she said, with a sob — 
“I’m glad I came. I think mother ’ll die to- 
night.” 

Old Tady Pratt “passed away” very quietly. 
The going out of the light which had burned so 


Old Lady Pratt, 


247 


bravely and steadily for more than ninety years 
was almost imperceptible to the watchers at her 
side. 

The next two days were for Betsy a time of 
bewilderment. She sat, with a dazed look upon 
her face, receiving the visits of condolence. As 
one neighbor after another entered and pressed 
her hand in respectful sympathy, she would rouse 
herself to say, in a vague, wandering voice : 
“ Mother ’s gone. Yes, mother ’s gone.” And 
then she would sink back into silence, while the 
conversation went on about her in subdued tones. 

” Poor Aunt Betsy ! ” they all said. ” She ’s 
quite broken. It almost seems as though she were 
losing her mind.” 

Ah, it was not her mind she was losing, poor 
soul ! She could have better spared that. It was 
the heart which had quite gone out of her. 

Happily she was saved any acute feeling of sor- 
row in those first days by the merciful apathy that 
had fallen upon her. She was like a boat that 
has slipped its moorings, but fioats upon a quiet 
sea. There were no wild tossings to and fro, no 
great waves to swallow up the fragile bark. It 
might drift far out on the darkening waters, or 
the incoming tide might rudely crush it on the 
rocks. For the moment it fioated gently and 
aimlessly upon the bosom of the deep. 

The stir and excitement of the funeral roused 
Betsy somewhat. She was pleased with the 
wreaths and crosses and other floral emblems 


248 


Pratt Portraits, 


which, were sent in, making the air of the little 
house heavy with their fragrance. She was even 
interested in her own mourning when they brought 
it to her and helped her put it on. Bach token 
of respect, each ceremony of grief, gratified her, 
as a tribute to the imperious little woman who 
had ruled her every thought and action. 

There was consolation, too, in the peaceful 
figure in the rosewood coffin. The face she loved 
looked so life-like and so serene, that she could 
not grasp the idea that it must be put away from 
her sight, that all this pageant, as it seemed to 
her simple mind, was to end in utter blackness 
and emptiness. 

She was taken in the first carriage with Sister 
Harriet ; and even when the mournful procession 
slowly moved on its solemn way she was upheld 
by a grateful consciousness of the long line of 
carriages, with their many inmates, paying hon- 
orable tribute to her mother’s memory. 

It was a bitterly cold day, and the services at 
the grave were short — short, but terribly real and 
final. As she stood there in the cruel wind, poor 
drifting soul, the inevitable tide was rising, and 
the rocks were very near. 

Harriet was to stay with her that night ; and 
when they had had their dinner and set the house 
in order, she proposed to Betsy that they should 
both go to their rooms and lie down. 

Betsy had been looking on with a feeling of 
jealousy foreign to her gentle nature, as Har- 


Old Lady Pratt, 


249 


riet worked with her about the little rooms, 
straightening the furniture and replacing the 
ornaments upon the tables. She was thankful 
to be left, for a time, at least, in possession of her 
own, so she meekly went up stairs and lay down 
on the bed, while Harriet retired to the ‘ ‘ best 
chamber.” 

The rocks were very, very near, and the poor 
soul was fast drifting upon them. She lay upon 
her bed for a few minutes in helpless misery. 
Then she got up, and sat awhile in her window. 
The mere inaction, to which she was unaccus- 
tomed, was distressing to her, but she did not 
know where to turn for escape. 

” Oh, dear ! ” she moaned softly to herself ; “oh, 
dear ! I ain’t got anybody to do for any more.” 

She got up and went into her mother’s room, 
and moved about, taking up and putting down 
again the little personal belongings : the faded 
pin-cushion on the bureau, the old receipt-book, 
the worn spectacle-case with the steel-bowed 
glasses, — the gold spectacles had only been worn 
on “occasions,” and were kept under lock-and- 
key. She went to the great double-bed with the 
calico flounce around it, and softly smoothed the 
pillows. 

By and by she took a dust-cloth and went over 
every bit of the furniture. It comforted her, for the 
moment, when she found a speck of dust to be 
removed. But when the humble task was fin- 
ished, the comfoit was past. 


250 


Pratt Portraits. 


“Oh, dear! I wish I could do something for 
her,” she whispered, as she crept down the nar- 
row stairs to the sitting-room. 

Eliza was making a cheerful clatter in the 
kitchen, and some English sparrows were squab- 
bling in the snow ; but for Betsy’s ears there was 
nothing to break the sense of utter emptiness and 
desolation. 

“ Oh, dear I ” she kept saying to herself — “ oh, 
dear!” 

She moved toward the parlor, where her 
mother had lain in state. As she opened the 
door a fierce chill struck her, and she went and 
got her little gray knit shawl, which she pulled 
tightly about her shoulders. Everything in the 
parlor was in its accustomed place, yet nothing 
was the same. She moved to the table in the 
middle of the room, and laid her hand upon its 
hard, cold surface. In the shadow beneath a 
window she saw a small object lying. She 
picked it up. It was a little bunch of pansies 
which one of the great-grandchildren had 
brought “to Grandma Pratt.” 

“Oh, dear!” murmured Betsy. “It ’s the 
pansies. They ’ve been forgotten. And they 
was always her favorite flower. ’ ’ 

She lifted them to her face a moment, and then 
she laid them down on the table. By and by she 
went to the kitchen and fetched a tumbler of 
water, and set the pansies in it. 

After that she wandered aimlessly about again. 


Old Lady Pratt. 


251 


“ Mother ’d say I was uneasy as a fish,” she 
suddenly said to herself, and sat resolutely down. 
Her eyes lingered regretfully upon the pansies in 
the tumbler, and the words, “Mothered ought 
to have them ! Mother ’d ought to have them ! ” 
dwelt like a refrain upon her lips. Suddenly an 
inspiration came to her that made her heart beat 
quicker. Why should not her mother have them ? 
She looked out of the window. The sun was 
still bright upon the glittering snow, though the 
short winter’s day was drawing to a close. 
” ’T ain’t so very far,” she said to herself. 
“There ’ll be plenty o’ time to git back before 
supper, and Harriet ’pears to be asleep. I do 
want to do somethin’ for mother to-night, and 
she ’d ought to have them flowers.” 

With trembling haste she went up stairs to her 
room, creeping stealthily past the door of the 
‘ ‘ best chamber. ’ ’ Harriet was sound asleep, as 
Betsy might have known if she could have heard 
the heavy breathing within the room. She put 
on her warmest cloak, which happened to be a 
black one, and her new black bonnet and gloves, 
and hurried softly down the stairs. In her haste 
she had forgotten the “ Sontag, ” which she al- 
ways wore in very cold weather, and it had not 
seemed quite decorous to wind her big white 
‘ ‘ cloud ’ ’ around the mourning bonnet. 

The air struck cold upon her as she closed the 
front door behind her, and she hid the pansies in 
the folds of her cloak to keep them warm. “ It 


252 Pi'att Portraits, 

seems to me colder ’n it did this morning,” she 
said, with a shiver, not noticing that the sunlight 
was all but gone from the chimneys and tree- tops ; 
“but mother ’d ought to have them pansies ; her 
favorite flower, too ! ’ ’ Her teeth chattered as she 
hurried along, stumbling now and then, but there 
was the warmth of an eager purpose within her. 
‘ ‘ I wanted to do somethin’ for mother ; I did want 
to do some little thing for mother. ’ ’ The dusk 
was gathering fast about her, but she knew the 
way. “ I hope they won’t miss me before I git 
back,” she whispered, with a guilty look at the 
darkening sky ; ‘ ‘ they might git worried. ’ ’ And 
she pushed on, faster and faster, through side 
streets and alleys, an increasing eagerness urging 
her on as she approached her goal. 

Harriet’s family and Anson’s had lots in the 
new “Woodland Cemetery,” but Old Tady Pratt 
and her husband were lying side by side in the 
quieter resting-place of their own generation, 
known as ‘ ‘ the old burying-ground. ’ ’ 

There was no wind stirring, and as Aunt Betsy 
hurried on and on, and saw the stars coming out 
in the clear sky, there was a growing gladness in 
her heart, and she scarcely noted the deadly chill 
that was creeping upon her. 

The gates of the old burying-ground were 
never locked, and there was nought to hinder 
her as she pushed them aside with her benumbed 
hands and entered in. 

The Pratt lot was in a sheltered corner not far 


Old Lady Pratt, 


253 


from the entrance, and Betsy went to it, without 
hesitation. There it was, with its row of modest 
head-stones, and the black break in the snow, 
which marked the newly made grave. It looked 
very black indeed in the starlight, and Betsy 
shuddered with a feeling stronger than the outer 
cold. 

She laid the pansies, wilted with frost, upon the 
dark mound, and then she sat down on a bench 
in the shelter of the high board fence to rest. 
The sky was sparkling with stars, and she looked 
up at them with a sudden glow of hope and joy. 

“ Mother ’s up there,” she said within herself, 
for her cold lips refused their office. ‘ ‘ Seems to 
me as though I could see her eyes a-shinin’ down. 
I wonder if she ’s pleased to have them pansies ? ’ ’ 

A feeling of warmth and well-being stole upon 
her as she sat on the old bench, gazing no longer 
at the dark grave, but at the starry heavens. 

Yes, it did seem as though her mother’s eyes 
were shining somewhere among those stars, and 
as she looked longingly toward them there 
sounded in her poor unhearing ears the sweet- 
est words that had ever reached them : “ Betsy, 
you ’re a good girl ; I don’t know what I should 
do without you. ’ ’ 

Over and over, like a sweet refrain, those words 
sounded, while the sense of warmth and bright- 
ness deepened upon her. Then her eyes closed 
but did not seem to shut out the glory of the 
heavens. And hearing still those comforting 


254 


Pratt Portraits, 


words, her gray head dropped upon her breast, 
and she fell gently and happily asleep. 

After a night of anxious search, they found her 
there in the early dawn. 

“ Poor Aunt Betsy ! ” some one said. “She 
must have gone crazy. ’ ’ 

“ That ain’t the face of a crazy woman,” said 
Brother Ben, with a choke in his voice. “It ’s 
the face of a transfigured saint. God bless her ! ’ ’ 
And he knew in his loving heart that already the 
benediction rested upon her. 


XL 


T 


MARY ANNK. 

iHANK you, dear child.” 

The voice in which these words were 
spoken was of that soft, uncertain 
quality in which a hint of querulous- 
ness may be detected. The speaker’s face was 
the face of a nervous invalid. 

“Thank you, dear child,” she said sweetly, 
and her daughter’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. 
Mary Anne Spencer knew no greater joy than 
a word of appreciation from those lips could 
bestow. She left the room with heightened color 
and elastic step. 

“How unselflsh Mary Anne is!” said Mrs. 
Spencer, as the door closed behind her daughter. 

The remark fell upon unheeding ears. Mr. 
James Spencer was far too much engrossed in his 
evening paper to give a thought to so common- 
place a theme as Mary Anne’s unselfishness. 
Every one knew that Mary Anne was unselfish, 
every one said that she was. There was no more 
doubt on the subject than upon the color of her 
hair or of her eyes, and those who praised her 
were totally unconscious of the patronizing tone 
which lurked in their commendations. 


255 


256 


Pratt Portraits. 


Unselfishness is a virtue which is seldom ques- 
tioned, but, if carried to excess, it places its 
owner at a manifest disadvantage. It is a hin- 
drance to personal success, and whoever may 
have first made the statement, the world surely 
did not wait for his utterance before discovering 
that “ nothing succeeds like success.” 

James Spencer, himself a successful man, un- 
acquainted with the first principles of self-abnega- 
tion, did not concern himself much with his 
daughter’s character. She was useful to him in 
many ways, but her personality failed to interest 
him. He would not have acknowledged even to 
himself that he found her amiability monotonous. 
Indeed, Mary Anne’s “crying virtue” as her 
father once called it in a moment of irritation, 
had never awakened a distinct misgiving in any 
one’s mind, excepting in that of her father’s 
grandmother. Old Uady Pratt. 

“ Don’t talk to me about Mary Anne’s un- 
selfishness ! ’ ’ the independent old lady would 
exclaim. “I ’ve no patience with her.” 

“But, Grandma!” would be the rejoinder, 
“don’t you think her spirit of self-sacrifice is 
very beautiful ? ’ ’ 

“ A fig for her sperrit of self-sacrifice I Before 
you know it, it ’ll be all the sperrit she ’s got left I 
I can tell you something that ’s a long sight bet- 
ter than self-sacrifice, and that ’s a good, whole- 
some bit of self-assertion ! We wa’ n’t made to lie 
down for other folks to walk over. What ’s the 


Mary Anne. 


257 


good of a backbone, I should like to know, if not 
so ’s we can stand up straight and make the most 
of the chances the Lord gives us ! ” 

This had been the old lady’s stand from the 
very first, and she held her position stoutly to the 
last. The ‘ ‘ unselfish ’ ’ Mary Anne had always 
given her greater cause for uneasiness than did 
Mary Anne’s scapegrace brother Tom, who, in 
his boyhood, was the despair of his other elders. 

One day, in her extreme old age. Old Lady 
Pratt gave still stronger expression to her views 
than she had hitherto done. For on this occasion 
she took her daughter Harriet (Mary Anne’s 
grandmother) into her confidence on a point 
which she had never before touched upon. 

“ I tell you what ’t is, Harriet,” she said, with 
her old eyes snapping, and her knitting-needles 
glinting faster than ever. “ I tell you what ’t is ! 
I ain’t lived ninety years in this world without 
findin’ out that a little spunk is as good for other 
folks as ’t is for yourself. It ’s my opinion that 
women like Mary Anne do more mischief than 
they ’d relish bein’ called to account for. There ’s 
Betsy, now ! You don’t ’spose I ’m any the better 
for havin’ ordered her about for more ’n sixty 
years runnin’ ? ” 

The old lady looked at her patient daughter 
with a softened, pitiful expression. 

” Poor Betsy ! She ain’t to blame, seein’ she’s 
deaf as a post. She ’s a good girl, and she ’d ben 

smart ’s anybody if she could only ha’ heard a 
17 


Pratt Portraits, 


258 

little of what folks was sayin’. But there ! 
There ’s no need o’ cryin’ over spilt milk. All 
I ’ve got to say is, there ain’t no sech excuse for 
Mary Anne, and I declare for ’t, I sometimes 
feel ’s though I should like to shake her.''^ 

Now neither the many who praised, nor yet the 
one who censured, really had the clue to the 
girl’s character. Old Tady Pratt, with all her 
shrewdness, supposed, as the rest of the world 
did, that Mary Anne was inherently and spon- 
taneously unselfish. That when she gave up 
pleasures that others might enjoy them, when she 
sacrificed her own inclinations that she might do 
a service for some one else, it was because of a 
quality in her nature different from anything in 
her companions. 

The truth was, however, that Mary Anne’s 
unselfishness was a refuge, to which she in- 
stinctively had resort, impelled thereto by her two 
ruling characteristics — self-distrust and a craving 
for approbation. 

Mary Anne was the eldest child of James 
Spencer, a man of peremptory manners, though 
of a really yielding disposition. His other chil- 
dren had never found any difficulty in “ getting 
round Father.” It was only his eldest daughter 
who stood in awe of him. This may have been 
one reason why she was not a favorite with her 
father. From the time when she was a little 
child, his commands and admonitions had fright- 
ened her. He had a way of coming to the foot 


Mary Anne. 


259 


of the stairs, when there was too much noise in 
the nursery, and saying “ Hst ! ” and that sharp, 
penetrating sound would send cold shivers down 
her back, even when she was doing her best to 
keep her little flock in order. 

She was very young when she began to regard 
the little ones as her special charge. Her mother, 
who had little of what our grandmothers called 
“constitution,” had always had her own hands 
full with the care of the youngest baby, and she 
had left the others more and more to Mary Anne’s 
guidance and oversight. Mary Anne appeared 
to take naturally to the task. To all the world 
she seemed to be a good, plodding girl, quite 
without desires and aspirations on her own ac- 
count. The fact that it took brains as well as 
patience to accomplish what she had always done 
never seemed to dawn upon those about her. All 
her usefulness, and no one denied its magnitude, 
was attributed to her being “ so unselfish,” and, 
proud of the one virtue with which she was 
credited, Mary Anne clung to her reputation and, 
unconsciously perhaps, endeavored to augment it. 
So great was her thirst for praise that a word of 
thanks, a smile of appreciation, filled her cup of 
happiness to the brim, and no price was too high 
to pay for such a reward. It must be recorded, 
however, that none of Mary Anne’s beneficiaries 
were lavish in their gratitude. Her father, as 
has been seen, took her good deeds for granted 
and wasted no words upon them. His wife, on 


26 o 


Pratt Portraits. 


her part, had so early formed the habit of shifting 
the burden of her cares upon her strong young 
daughter’s shoulders, that now, when there were 
no more babies to tend, she still looked upon 
Mary Anne as her chief support, and accepted 
the girl’s services as naturally and unthinkingly 
as she did those of the old family horse, or of the 
paid house-maids. It was because her ‘ ‘ Thank 
you, dear child ! ’ ’ was rare that it sent the color 
into her daughter’s cheeks. 

Mrs. James Spencer’s children — and there were 
nine of them — were a plump and hearty race, and 
all of them, excepting Mary Anne, were governed 
by that healthy spirit of self-seeking to which the 
world in reality owes so much. 

“Mary Anne! Mary Anne!” was the cry 
from morning till night. ‘ ‘ Mary Anne ! Come 
and help me do my sums ! ” Or : “ Mary Anne ! 
I ’ve tom a streak-o’-lightning hole in my trou- 
sers ! ” Or : “ Mary Anne ! I ’ve made a list of 
errands for you if you ’re going to town. ’ ’ Some- 
times a careless “ Thank you ” was tossed her for 
these services ; oftener, perhaps, it was forgotten. 

If any one of the children was taken sick in the 
night Mary Anne was sure to be called up, and 
young Dr. Winship, who had succeeded to his 
father’s practice, declared that she was a “ born 
nurse.” If Miss Plimpton, the dressmaker, was 
employed by the day it was Mary Anne who 
settled down, quite as a matter of course, to do 
seamstress work until the dressmaking dispensa- 


Mary Anne, 


261 


tion was past. It was Mary Anne who played 
backgammon with her father of an evening ; it 
was Mary Anne who bathed her mother’s head 
when it ached ; who beguiled the younger children 
to bed with tales of gnomes and fairies, of good 
little girls and bad little boys ; it was ‘ ‘ Miss 
Mary Anne ’ ’ to whom the servants came in any 
domestic emergency. She used sometimes to 
wish that she had been given a gentler, more 
musical name, since she was to hear it called in 
so many keys, by so many voices, to so many 
ends. She had been named for her mother, who, 
however, had always been called “ Nannie.” 
“And she ’s always been treated ‘Nannie,’” 
Mary Anne sometimes said to herself, rejoicing in 
the gentleness with which everybody approached 
the delicate, dependent woman. Mary Anne 
loved her mother with a devotion which was 
maternal in its tenderness and generosity ; and 
next to her mother she loved her troublesome 
brother, Tom. 

Tom, the “scapegrace” of the family, was 
four years her junior. He was no less bent upon 
having his own way than were his brothers and 
sisters. But where they simply demanded, he 
wheedled. Now wheedling involves many little 
expressions of affection, with a pinch of flattery 
thrown in, and now and then a kiss crops out in 
the process. When Tom told Mary Anne that 
she was the best sister a fellow ever had he was 
merely making a statement of fact, which the 


262 


Pratt Portraits. 


others, if called upon, would have willingly 
endorsed, but it so happened that he was the only 
one who ever thought of putting his opinion into 
words. And when he had made some such 
demonstration, Mary Anne’s cheeks would flush, 
and all day long she would gloat over the recol- 
lection as a miser gloats over his gold. She was 
not as unconscious as so good a girl should have 
been. When she played the piano for a whole 
evening that a party of boys and girls might 
dance, she was not above reflecting that they 
owed their enjoyment to her. When she had 
stroked her mother’s temples until her arm fplt 
like anguished lead, and when she finally saw 
sleep steal over the worn face, she would glory in 
the thought that it was she who had brought 
relief. She would have begrudged the ofiice to 
any other hand. Happily, Mary Anne was not 
morbidly conscientious or introspective. Had 
she been so, she would have detected her own 
foibles, and all her innocent pleasure would have 
been spoiled. She was now twenty-six years of 
age, and she had never yet thought of living a 
life of her own. There was only one very strong 
desire which she cherished on her own account, 
and that one desire was for a musical education. 
She had been taught piano-playing when she was 
a little girl, but after she had attained such pro- 
ficiency as to be able to play for dancing, the 
lessons had been stopped. She had a strong 
musical bent, and practising was still her one 


Mary Anne, 


263 


indulgence. She played Beethoven sonatas and 
Mendelssohn Songs Without Words, in her own 
way, which was a much better way than any one 
had yet discovered. Her mother’s mother had 
recently died, leaving each of her grandchildren 
a legacy of five hundred dollars, and Mary Anne 
intended using it for music lessons whenever she 
should ‘ ‘ get time. ’ ’ The money, meanwhile, 
had been placed in the savings bank, where it 
might increase itself to this excellent end. 

But one day Tom came begging, and before he 
left her she had loaned him her $500, for a secret 
purpose which he could not reveal, but which he 
was ‘ ‘ sure she would approve. ’ ’ Tom was in a 
banker’s office, and had doubtless heard of a 
promising investment, and nothing could have 
seemed more natural than that he should have 
the use of her money. 

One fine evening in April Mary Anne found 
herself mistress of the house and of her own time. 
Her father had taken his wife and two of his 
daughters to hear Christine Nilsson sing. The 
two youngest children were in bed, and the rest 
of the family were scattered in one or another 
direction. The evening was mild and the house 
rather warm. Mary Anne opened the parlor 
windows, lighted the candles in the brackets 
of the old square piano, and fell to practising 
the Moonlight Sonata. Untutored as she was, 
there was nothing ordinary or slipshod in the 
girl’s playing. What she lacked in technique 


264 


Pratt Portraits. 


was more than atoned for, to the uncritical ear, 
by the spirit and expression with which she 
played. She had practised long and carefully on 
this sonata, and to-night, for the first time, she 
was giving rein to her fingers. She played the 
third movement, with its splendid crescendos and 
beautiful periods, three times over, each time 
with gathering impetuosity and passion. It was 
something to arrest any listener. 

So at least thought one passer-by, as he paused 
at the gate. It was young Dr. Winship, a man 
of German tastes and traditions, to whom the 
Moonlight Sonata was an article of faith. 

‘ ‘ Who on earth can that be ? ” he asked 
himself. 

The young man had a great liking and respect 
for the family in the large, rambling yellow house, 
with the little white fence around the roof, and 
the pear-trees in the front yard. He liked them 
all very much, and he flattered himself that he 
knew them pretty thoroughly, but he had never 
discovered any musical genius among them. 

Mary Anne was just beginning the movement 
for the third time, and the opening passages went 
rolling up and on like great ocean breakers. Dr. 
Winship listened a few minutes with growing 
incredulity, and then he opened the gate and 
walked up the path. Just as the performer, rather 
breathless and excited, had finished the move- 
ment he was ushered into the parlor. There sat 
his “bom nurse,” in the soft, transfiguring 


Mary Anne. 


265 


candle-light, turning a starlit face toward him, 
and rising with a dazed, uncertain gesture to 
meet him. 

But she was herself in a moment, and came 
forward, saying deprecatingly : 

“ Oh Dr. Winship ! I am so sorry everybody is 
out ! ” 

“ It did n’t sound as though everybody were 
out a moment ago, ’ ’ he said, grasping her hand 
very warmly. “I came in to thank you for your 
music. ’ ’ 

“ Did you like it ? ” she cried, with a childlike 
spontaneous delight which was very winning. 

“ Does n’t everybody? ” he asked. 

‘ ‘ I never play to anybody except for dancing. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I hope you will play for me sometimes. But 
not to-night.” he added, gently. “You have 
played yourself into a fever.” 

It was the most delicious thing Mary Anne had 
experienced in all her life. First the praise and 
then this solicitude and gentleness. 

‘ ‘ Where did you learn to play ? ” he asked 
presently, as he sat beside the music-stand look- 
ing over the little collection of pieces. 

“ I never learned. That is just the trouble,” 
she said. “ I took lessons till I was twelve years 
old, and then it got crowded out. ’ ’ 

“ Crowded out, when you were twelve years 
old ! What a busy child you must have been ! ” 

She laughed and said, “I’m afraid I was only 
slow.” 


266 


Pratt Portraits, 


‘ ‘ Are all your people out to-night ? I was in 
luck ! — I mean, ’ ’ he corrected himself, ‘ ‘ I was 
in luck that you should not have gone too.” 

‘ ‘ They have all gone to town to hear Nilsson. ’ ’ 

” I wonder how they managed to leave the 
musician of the family at home.” The situation 
made him unconventional. 

“Father could only get four tickets,” she 
answered simply. 

Dr. Winship suddenly remembered that he had 
always associated this girl with household cares, 
that he had found her on three separate occasions 
established as night-nurse in a sick-room, that 
when he had called socially, he had invariably 
been told that Mary Anne was “playing back- 
gammon with Father” or was “up-stairs with 
Mother.” A feeling of indignation got the better 
of him. 

“ Miss Spencer,” he asked, “ do you never by 
any chance have any good times ? ’ ’ 

Mary Anne gave her questioner a surprised 
look. Then she replied with a sort of apologetic 
dignity : 

“ I always have a good time.” 

‘ ‘ Is that so ? Then you are the first person I 
ever knew who got her exact deserts.” 

Having thus relieved his mind, the visitor 
discreetly left personalities alone. They fell to 
talking of music and of Germany, of foreign peo- 
ple and remote things, and for one reason or 
another, both these young people became entirely 


Mary Anne. 


267 


absorbed in conversation, and both felt a pang of 
regret as the tall clock in the dining-room sent 
its solemn voice echoing through the house pro- 
claiming the hour of ten. 

Dr. Winship sprang promptly to his feet, for he 
prided himself upon knowing how to go. But 
before precipitating himself out of the door, as 
was his wont, he shook his entertainer cordially 
by the hand, and said, with unmistakable sin- 
cerity : “ I don’t know when I have enjoyed an 
evening so much. May I bring my violin next 
time ? ’ ’ 

“ Next time ! ” The words sounded like music, 
the very clang of the closing door resounded like 
a paean through the house. 

As Mary Anne stood in the middle of the room, 
trying to get her balance, there was a sharp rap 
on the door which she opened hastily. 

‘ ‘ Have you seen the new moon over your left 
shoulder ? ’ ’ asked the young doctor, with amus- 
ing eagerness. “ It has rained so much lately I 
thought you might have missed it. ’ ’ 

“No. I haven’t seen it. But you ought to 
look at it over your right shoulder. ’ ’ 

“Oh, no! That ’s a great mistake. The 
Germans, who are up in mystic lore, taught me 
better.” 

She held back doubtfully. 

“ I ’ve always been so particular about it,” she 
said. 

“ Well, now. Just trust to me, and try it the 


268 


Pratt Portraits. 


other way. See, it will be gone behind the 
church in a few minutes. There ! stand that way 
and turn your head to the left. There now ! 
See if you don’t begin to have good luck as is 
good luck.” 

She laughed a delighted little laugh that was 
pleasant to hear. 

“ I always supposed you were all science,” she 
cried. 

‘ ‘ And I always thought you were all useful- 
ness,” he retorted. “It is a great relief to know 
the truth about you.” 

“ And I ’m very glad you ’re so light-minded. ” 

She had her hand on the door to go in. Her 
face, turned toward the moonlight, looked won- 
derfully youthful and sweet. Mary Anne’s cares 
had after all been of a kind to leave the spirit 
unclouded. 

‘ ‘ Did you ever breathe anything so good as 
this air ? ” the young man asked, actually linger- 
ing on the brink, as he had seen and despised 
others for doing. 

“ It ’s the spring,” she answered, simply. He 
remembered her attitude and the tone of her 
voice, years after, when they listened together to 
the same words set to heavenly music. 

“Miss Spencer,” he cried, impulsively, “I 
wish the next time anybody is sick, you would 
let somebody else sit up with them. It would do 
them good.” 

She shook her head with much decision. 


Mary Anne. 269 

“There is n’t anybody else — and, besides, I 
like it.” 

“There ’s the usefulness cropping out again,” 
he cried. ‘ ‘ Good-bye. ’ ’ 

“And were n’t you a trifle professional just 
now ? ’ ’ she called gayly after him. 

Then she closed the door behind her, and stood 
in the brightly lighted hall, trying once more to 
get her bearings. 

How foolish she was to be so excited and happy 
over a little thing. It was probably just like 
what was happening to other girls all the time. 
She had had a very pleasant evening, of course, 
but what of that ? And there were the candles on 
the piano burnt down to their very sockets, and 
she must go directly and make a cup of tea 
against her mother’s return. 

She busied herself with this and other duties, 
and tried to bring herself to reason, but do what 
she would, think what she would, she was 
changed, and the next morning before breakfast 
she determined not to put off any longer getting 
herself a spring suit, even if the rest of the family 
were not already provided for. This, in itself, 
was enough to prove that a revolution had taken 
place in her mind. Yet so strongly did her old 
life-long habits assert themselves as the day wore 
on, that, but for an opportune catastrophe, she 
might again have fallen a victim to them. 

The second day following her pleasant evening 
was a New England holiday, the 19th of April. 


Pratt Portraits, 


270 

Mr. Spencer did not go to his office in town, and 
Mary Anne was not surprised to be summoned to 
him in the library. She went, prepared to render 
some chance service, or answer some question 
about household affairs. To her consternation 
she found Tom there, looking very pale and des- 
perate, standing before his father, whose face was 
stern and lowering. 

‘‘Well, Mary Anne ! ” was her father’s greet- 
ing. “ Here ’s a pretty state of things ! ” 

‘ ‘ Why, Father. What ’s the matter ? ’ ’ 

“ Matter enough ! Tom ’s been gambling in 
stocks, and owes a thousand dollars, and there ’s 
nobody to blame for it but you.” 

“ Father ! ” Tom remonstrated. 

“Hold your tongue, Tom,” cried his father, 
hotly. “It ’s exactly as I say. If Mary Anne 
had n’t been an absolute fool, she would have 
known better than to lend you money. I don’t 
count that among his debts,” James Spencer 
added, bitterly. “ It serves you right to lose it, 
and I, for one, shall not make it up to you. ’ ’ 

“ But, Father,” Tom began again. 

“ Hold your tongue, Tom. Do you hear me? 
Tom ’s been a fool, too,” he went on, turning to 
his daughter ; “but he has at least had the man- 
liness to own up. He ’s not quite lost to all 
sense of decency yet. But he ’s headed straight 
down hill. He ’s got a taste for gambling, and 
if he goes straight to the deuce, I swear there ’s 
nobody to blame but you.” 


Mary Anne. 


271 


Mary Anne stood half stunned by the violence 
of the attack. Could it be she whom her father 
was saying such things about ? She ? She who 
would have given her life for Tom? She who 
had never had a thought for herself? Who had 
sacrificed every natural wish and taste to serve 
her family? Who had relinquished her little 
treasure because Tom had persuaded her that it 
would make a man of him to have a taste of en- 
terprise ? She was to be Tom’s ruin? A hot 
flush of indignation went over her. For the first 
time in her life she experienced a great throb of 
self-assertion. In a voice as peremptory as 
James Spencer’s own she demanded: “Are you 
talking about me. Father? Do you say that I 
have ruined Tom ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I do ! You have systematically spoiled 

him all his life ; and now ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I have systematically spoiled you all ! ’ ’ cried 
Mary Anne, with a sudden, uncontrollable en- 
ergy of rebellion. “ Every one of you ! From 
you. Father,’’ looking him unflinchingly in the 
eye, “down to little Ben and Jimmy. I ’ve 

spoiled you so that you ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Highty ! tighty ! Is this the self-sacrificing 

Mary Anne, who prides herself ’ ’ 

Again she interrupted him. She was no more 
afraid of her father now, than she was of the 
Moonlight Sonata, and flinging herself with 
the whole force of her nature upon the catastro- 
phe, she cried, “ I will never be self-sacrificing 


272 


Pratt Portraits, 


again as long as I live ! I will never do another 
thing for anybody else ! I am going to be a per- 
fect pig ! ” 

James Spencer stared for a few seconds in 
speechless astonishment at his daughter, stand- 
ing before him with flaming cheeks and deflant 
eyes. Had she lost her mind, or had she become 
possessed of the devil ? At any rate she looked 
surprisingly handsome, and that at least was as 
it should be. A sudden revulsion of feeling went 
over him, and holding out both hands to her, he 
cried : 

“ Mary Anne, come here ! You ’re a trump ! 
I ’m proud of you ! ” He held her hands for a 
moment and gazed up at her from his big easy 
chair with a look wherein approbation still con- 
tended with amazement, and then he said : ‘ ‘ See 
that you stick it out, my girl ! see that you stick 
it out ! ’ ’ 

For the moment Tom’s misdemeanors were for- 
gotten, and somehow they never assumed the same 
gigantic proportions in the family councils again. 
In his joy at having his daughter’s virtues miti- 
gated, James Spencer could afford to be indulgent 
to the sins of his son. 

When, that same evening, a caller was an- 
nounced, namely. Dr. Charles Winship, Mary 
Anne, with a queer little laugh, said to her younger 
sister : “ Edith, I think you ’d better play back- 
gammon with Father this evening. I want to 
see Dr. Winship myself” 


Mary Anne, 273 

Then James Spencer openly gloried in the situ- 
ation. 

“ Well, Edith,” he said, with a comical shrug 
of his broad shoulders, as he settled himself for 
his game ; ” Mary Anne ’s carrying things with 
a high hand. You and I may as well submit.” 

18 


XII. 

WBI.Iv MATCHED. 

P BOPIvB often said of Mr. Richard Spencer 
and his youngest son, Dick, that they 
were ‘ ‘ well matched. ” It is to be feared 
that the comparison was not altogether 
flattering to either of them, since it was called 
forth less by the rather inconspicuous virtues 
which they had in common, than by their more 
striking characteristics of an irascible temper and 
considerable stubbornness. 

Yet there was something in what wise Old 
Bady Pratt, Mr. Spencer’s grandmother, had said 
when young Mrs. Spencer confided to her her 
anxieties early in her son Dick’s career. 

“ Bizzie,” Grandma said, “ do you recollect our 
old Topsy, that was always a-layin’ in that stuffed 
cheer when you and Richard used to drop in so 
unconscious-like of a Saturday evening, and be 
all struck of a heap to see each other? Betsy, 
she ’d never believe you was a-courtin’. Old 
maids are most gen’ rally kind o’ hard to con- 
vince. But my spectacles are pretty sharp ones. ’ ’ 
To such sallies Bizzie never failed to respond 


274 


Well Matched, 


275 

with a becoming blush. She was a woman who 
did not outgrow her feelings. 

“ Well, ” Grandma went on, “ Topsy was about 
as fierce a cat as ever lived. I declare for ’t, I do 
believe the critter ’d rather fight than eat any 
day. But there was one cat he was friends with, 
and that was Miss Gibbs’s Jericho. Jericho he was 
a master-hand at fightin’ too, and it ’s more ’n 
likely that them two tabbies had had one good 
pitched battle to begin with. But whether or no, 
there ’peared to be a kind o’ bond o’ union be- 
twixt ’em. They ’d sit nose to nose on that 
board fence sunnin’ themselves by the hour. 
Sometimes they ’d blink at each other and wave 
their tails about kind o’ gentle an’ innocent. 
Then agin’ they ’d go off to sleep jest as confid- 
in’ ’s a pair of turtle-doves. Now you mark my 
words, Tizzie ; it ’ll be jest so with Dick and his 
father. They ’re too well matched to fight often. 
They may have it out once or twice before they 
come to reason, and I don ’t say ’tain’t goin’ to 
be pretty lively for you. But there ’ll never be 
any small naggin’ and domineerin’ betwixt ’em, 
and when once they ’re settled down friends, it ’ll 
take a good deal to set ’em onto each other.” 

Old Dady Pratt was right about this as she 
was about most things, and before she went to 
her rest she had the satisfaction of seeing her 
grandson and his young epitome living as com- 
fortably together as Topsy and Jericho in the sun. 

As Dick grew up it was really delightful to see 


276 


Pratt Portraits. 


what good friends the two were. Mrs. Spencer 
could forgive her husband for falling into an oc- 
casional rage with the other children, because he 
seldom molested her ‘ ‘ fire-brand ’ ’ Dick ; and as 
for Dick he might “blow out” at her with im- 
punity, so long as he did not rouse the lion which 
slumbered in the bosom of her chosen lord. She 
would often watch them as they strolled down 
the garden path together, thinking the while of 
Topsy and Jericho and of her early alarms, and 
she would say to herself with a deep sigh of 
content, ‘ ‘ It has really been a great deliverance. ’ ’ 

A sensible woman was Mrs. Richard Spencer, 
and her husband only hoped that his sons might 
have his luck when their courting days came 
round. 

The courting days were nearer at hand than 
Mr. Richard Spencer suspected. Perhaps he had 
forgotten that he began his own courting at the 
early age of twenty. Such a lapse of memory 
could alone account for his not attaching more 
significance than he did to a little incident which 
occurred one pleasant June morning when Dick 
was barely turned twenty-one. The family were 
assembled at the breakfast-table, grace had been 
said, and as Mr. Spencer lifted his eyes he beheld 
an unusual sight. The dining-room windows 
looked out upon the gravel space in front of the 
bam. Although it was at some distance from the 
house, the view was unobstructed, and a top- 
buggy which had been backed out from the car- 


Well Matched. 


277 


riage-house was plainly visible. This was a sight 
to which Mr. Spencer was well accustomed, and 
there was nothing unusual in the pailfuls of water 
which were being energetically flung upon the 
four wheels of the vehicle. It was on this spot 
and at this hour that the carriages were frequently 
washed. 

But Mr. Spencer’s eyesight was good, and he 
saw, not only the buggy top ghstening in the 
brilliant morning sunshine, and the figure of his 
trusted servant vigorously swashing the wheels, 
but in the shadow of the buggy top an object 
suspended, which bore a striking resemblance to 
a woman’s bonnet. It was of white straw with 
bright pink roses upon it, and as it hung from the 
hook provided for the reins, it was lightly wafted 
to and fro by a gentle morning breeze. It gave 
Mr. Spencer rather a singular feeling, for the 
buggy was Dick’s, and he looked often from the 
unique picture before his eyes to the unconscious 
face of his son. He was quite determined, how- 
ever, not to make any allusion to the matter, and 
was rather taken aback when he found himself 
saying, as he passed his cup for more coffee, ‘ ‘ Did 
you have a pleasant drive yesterday, Dick ? ” 

‘ ‘ Yes, sir, ’ ’ said Dick, ‘ ‘ very pleasant. ’ ’ 

“ Where did you go ? ” 

“ I went round by Darbon Centre. There are 
lots of wild roses out,” he added, with an air of 
dwelling upon the point of chief interest. 

“ H’m ! Did you go alone ? ” 


278 


Pratt Portraits, 


“ No ; I took a friend.” 

Dick’s manner as he said this was so need- 
lessly innocent that his father’s wise resolution 
vanished, and before he could stop himself, he 
had said : 

” H’m ! He left his bonnet behind him.” 

Dick followed the direction of his father’s eyes, 
and looked out of the window. He flushed crim- 
son. There was a shout from John and a titter 
from the girls, and Dick, pushing back his chair, 
rushed from the table, and seizing his hat, dashed 
out to the barn. There they could see him be- 
rating the indiscreet groom, who vainly tried to 
conceal his enjoyment of the situation. 

Poor Dick ! It was no laughing matter to him. 
He sternly ordered the man to ‘ ‘ let that buggy 
alone and harness Golddust.” He backed the 
horse into the shafts himself, made fast the straps, 
and in five minutes after his hasty exit, his 
family beheld him driving out of the yard, the 
wheels of the buggy still dripping wet, and the 
bonnet waving like a banner from the top. A 
more defiant and indignant heart never beat 
under any flag. 

Once fairly out of sight of the dining-room 
windows, Dick took the bonnet from its un- 
worthy position and laid it reverently upon the 
seat beside him, first spreading his snowy pocket- 
handkerchief beneath it. Then he covered it 
over with the light lap-robe. 

He was a curious study at that moment, in the 


Well Matched, 


279 

mingled fury and tenderness of his aspect. With 
one hand he clinched the reins, as though seek- 
ing to control a wild beast, as indeed he was, 
though the wild beast’s name was not Golddust ; 
while the other hand rested protectingly on the 
fragile object beside him. He lifted the cover 
once or twice and looked at the fanciful combina- 
tion of straw, ribbons, and muslin flowers. It 
seemed to his untutored mind a thing of perfect 
beauty, and its nearness was very soothing to his 
wounded sensibilities. He reflected that the 
Mortons were not as early risers as his own fam- 
ily, and not wishing to arrive on his somewhat 
surprising errand at Julie’s house until her peo- 
ple were likely to be dispersed, he turned the 
obedient Golddust toward the open country. 
Poor Golddust was much perplexed and hurt by 
the grim clutch of his master’s hand upon the 
reins. He had a tender mouth and a tender con- 
science, and he knew he deserved better treat- 
ment. But he trotted lightly along the smooth 
road, and when, after a mile or two, the inconsid- 
erate grip was relaxed, he turned his head a little 
and laid back one ear in grateful and forgiving 
recognition of relief. 

At first Dick’s reflections were very bitter. He 
felt himself betrayed and wronged in his tender- 
est feelings. Yet those feelings of tenderness 
were so much stronger than his indignation about 
them could be that he gradually gave himself up 
to them. 


28 o 


Pratt Portraits, 


It had been his first drive with Julie, and after 
all nothing could rob him of it now. The lovely 
June weather, the long, lingering twilight, and 
the young hearts happy in an unexpressed com- 
^ munion, all had been in tune, while Golddust, 
with his shining sorrel coat, had seemed like a 
good fairy, graciously condescending to serve 
them. 

It was at this point in Dick’s meditations that 
Golddust felt the reins relaxed. 

The bonnets of that day were heavy, oppressive 
structures, and Julie had felt the weight and irk- 
someness of hers. So she doffed the awkward 
thing as they were driving home through the 
open country, and laid it in the hood of the 
buggy, where Dick made it fast to the hook. 
When the bonnet was gone a hundred little 
sunny curls were released, and the evening zeph- 
yrs played among them in a manner that en- 
chanted Dick. 

As they drove into the town half an hour later 
the stars were coming out, and the hush of a 
summer evening was in the shadowy streets. 
The two young people were silent and preoccu- 
pied, and when they drew up before Mr. Morton’s 
gate, Julie gave a little regretful sigh, at which a 
sudden throb of courage inspired Dick. 

He handed her from the buggy without speak- 
ing, but just as she turned to leave him he seized 
her hand and cried, in a voice more eloquent than 
the words : 


Well Matched, 


281 


“O Julie! I should like to drive with you 
forever I ” 

Was it any wonder that they forgot the bonnet ? 
That Julie ran up to her little room, her heart 
beating so hard that she could hardly breathe ? 
That Dick’s strong hand trembled as he drove 
Golddust home and ‘ ‘ put him up ” ? 

In the presence of such memories even the 
Spencer temper could not long rage, and by the 
time he reached the spot where they had discov- 
ered the wild roses, Dick’s mind was sufficiently 
disengaged to receive a happy suggestion. He 
would fill the bonnet with roses 1 

In an instant he was out of the buggy, search- 
ing for the fairest buds and blossoms, with a heart 
as light as though it had never stormed. He 
smiled gleefully as he laid the flowers in their 
singular basket. It was ‘ ‘ made to hold flowers, ’ ’ 
he said to himself, thinking, with a gleam of 
fancy, of the flower-like face he had often seen 
within it. Yes, the boy was too happy to be 
angry long. 

Dick’ s courtship ought to have been a prosperous 
one, for he and Julie had loved one another long 
before they were conscious of it. Furthermore, 
she was the very maiden whom his parents would 
have had him choose ; and even worldly circum- 
stance, so prone to frown upon lovers, was all in 
their favor. 

But there was an obstacle upon this flowery 
path which Dick scorned to evade — an obstacle 


282 


Pratt Portraits, 


which he had determined to remove, by brute 
force, if need be, before he would take another 
step. The boy was totally dependent upon his 
father, and he was resolved never to ask Julie to 
be his wife until he was in a fair way to earn a 
living. 

Mr. Spencer was the rich man of the pretty 
suburban town where he lived. He had made 
money in the iron business when that branch of 
commerce was most flourishing, and had retired 
from active life before the precipitous decline in 
the iron interest which had wrecked so many for- 
tunes. 

He was now comfortably occupied with the 
care of various trust properties. He was a bank 
director and president of the local horse-railway, 
and he held other offices of dignity and responsi- 
bility which were gratifying to his pride. 

He was not himself a college-bred man, yet he 
had a comfortable sense of equality in his inter- 
coiurse with those of his fellow-townsmen who 
had enjoyed the advantage of a fleeting familiarity 
with the dead languages, and he had left his sons 
free to accept or reject such advantages, as they 
should prefer. 

Ben, the eldest, had graduated with honors, 
and “ gone in ” for law ; John was established in 
business in the city, whither he repaired daily in 
the pursuit of fortune ; while Dick, after a year’s 
trial at college, had fallen into an impatience of 
books, and announced himself ready for practical 
life. 


Well Matched. 


283 


Now despite the shrewdness and capacity which 
had made a successful man of Mr. Richard Spen- 
cer, there was an unaccountable streak of dila- 
toriness in him. He acquiesced in Dick’s deci- 
sion with secret satisfaction. He had always had 
a peculiar pride in the boy’s resemblance to him- 
self, and he was glad to find that he was no book- 
worm. Yet he could not seem to rouse himself, 
as he ought to have done, to find a proper busi- 
ness opening for the lad. For nearly a year Dick 
had been fretting under the delay, for he was an 
ambitious young fellow, and had no mind to 
‘ ‘ fool away his best years, ” as he expressed it. 
Now, at last, things had come to a crisis, and 
spurred on by the hope of Julie’s love, he was 
ready to demand a career at the point of the 
bayonet. 

Armed, then, with all the righteousness of his 
cause, Dick went to the city, a few days after his 
memorable drive, and confronted his father in his 
business ofiice. He found him engaged in the 
perusal of a documentary-looking paper, from 
which he only glanced up as his son entered to 
say : 

“ Hullo, Dick ! What can I do for you? ” 

‘ ‘ I will wait until you are at leisure, sir, ’ ’ said 
Dick. “ I ’ve come to talk business.” 

“ Oh, ho ! ” said his father, amused by the im- 
portance of the boy’s tone. “It’s business is it ? 
All right ! Business before pleasure, ’ ’ and he 
folded up an elaborate scheme for the extension 
of one of the principal railroads in the country at 


284 


Pratt Portraits. 


the cost of several millions of dollars, and gravely 
waited for Dick to proceed. Dick, in his self- 
absorption, quite missed the point of the little 
joke. 

“Father,” he said, with much emphasis, 
“I Ve come to have a serious talk about my 
future. I ’ve come to ask you, once for all, to 
give me a start in life.” 

Mr. Spencer looked annoyed. “ My dear 
Dick,” he said, “this is n’t the place to discuss 
family matters. And besides,” he added, rather 
lamely, ‘ ‘ you know very well that I am on the 
look-out for you. I shall be as pleased as you 
when anything turns up. ’ ’ 

“Things don’t turn up of themselves,” Dick 
answered, stubbornly ; “ and if you don’t mean 
to lend a hand, I intend to look out for myself. ’ ’ 
Mr. Spencer felt thoroughly uncomfortable. It 
was very irritating to have the ‘ ‘ young rascal ’ ’ 
take such a tone with him. Yet, as a sort of sop 
to conscience, he determined to be magnanimous. 
So he said, not too crossly : 

“I don’t see what you ’re in such a hurry 
about, Dick. You ’ve got plenty of time before 
you. Y ou can’ t force these things. Come now, ’ ’ 
he added, persuasively, “why can’t you make 
up your mind to go abroad with the Wheelers as 
they want you too, and see a little of the world 
before you buckle down to hard work ! ’ ’ 

Clearly Mr. Richard Spencer had forgotten 
about that bonnet. 


Well Matched, 


285 


But Dick was not to be bought off, and he an- 
swered : “ Because I would n’t give a fig to go 
abroad. I ’m tired to death of shilly-shallying. 
I say, Father,” he added, beseechingly, “there ’s 
nothing I would n’t do. I ’d take any kind of a 
clerkship. I ’d sell goods behind a counter. I ’d 
go into a railroad office. Can’t you get me a 
chance at the D. & I. P. ? ” 

“ Nonsense, Dick ! It ’s out of the question.” 

“ But why?” 

“Why? Good gracious, Dick, can’t you see 
through a ladder? A salary is n’t what you ’re 
after. You don’t need the money. And besides, 
you can’t pick up a salaried place at every street 
comer. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I can’ t. But you could. Father. ’ ’ 

This eagerness was a little tiresome, and Mr. 
Spencer began to look bored. He unrolled the 
paper which had been subordinated to “busi- 
ness,’* and seemed to expect his visitor to go. So 
Dick got up. 

“Well, I see you want to get rid of me,” he 
said. There was no answer, and a dangerous 
look came into the boy’s eyes as he added : “I 
give you fair warning, sir, that as you won’t help 
me, I shall do my best to help myself.” 

“That ’s all right, Dick. Go ahead,” his 
father answered, glad to see the last of him on any 
terms, and as Dick closed the door behind him, 
not too gently, Mr. Spencer returned to the con- 
sideration of the documentary paper. For some 


286 


Pratt Portraits, 


reason he found it less interesting than before. 
Dick was gone, but the eager, frustrated look in 
the lad’s eyes haunted him. 

“ I only hope the young rascal won’t be play- 
ing me any trick,” he said to himself. ” First 
thing we know, he ’ll be clearing out altogether, 
and we shall hear of him digging gold among the 
roughs in California. Confound these young- 
sters ! They all think Rome was built in a day.” 

Between his disapproving conscience and his 
fears of some sort of a catastrophe, Mr. Spencer 
was far from easy in his mind, and he determined 
to bestir himself in the matter before he was a 
week older. 

But Dick was yet more prompt in action, and 
before either of them was a week older he had 
taken measures which were destined to disturb 
his father’s equanimity pretty seriously. 

When Dick left his father’s office, it was early 
in the afternoon, and the out-going horse-cars 
were but sparsely occupied. He stepped upon 
the rear platform of one, and lighted a cigar for 
solace and inspiration. He was angry and dis- 
couraged. He felt thoroughly defeated. Yet 
there was a certain satisfaction in having declared 
open war, and being ready to take the world on 
its own terms. In the course of his recent boy- 
hood, Dick had scraped acquaintance with most 
of the employes on this old-established road, and 
he soon fell into conversation with the conductor. 
Preoccupied as he was with the great subject of 


Well Matched, 


287 


bread- winning, he got his companion to talk of 
his work and of his pay, and the rich man’s son 
felt honestly envious of the independent possessor 
of such work and such wages. 

“Do 5 ^ou know, Bill, you ’re a mighty lucky 
fellow,” he said, “/’w such a beggar, I can’t 
get a chance to earn a nickel.” 

The conductor looked at him in some surprise. 
Then he said, jocosely : “You might come on the 
road. I ’m going to try and get transferred onto 
the new Teanton branch. It goes nearer my 
folks. I reckon I could get you my place.” And 
the honest fellow grinned with pleasure in his 
own humor. 

“By Jove!” Dick cried: “I guess we ’ve 
struck it this time 1 If that would n’t fetch the 
governor, nothing would.” 

The old woman with the bandbox who came 
out of the car just then, and the young woman 
reading a library book at the farther end of the 
seat, little guessed that a dark conspiracy was 
going on before their very eyes. But when Dick 
swung off the step, he called out : “ I ’ll see you 
to-morrow. Bill,” and walked toward Julie’s 
house with the tread of a conquering hero. 

The conspiracy ripened fast ; so fast that in less 
than a fortnight after that momentous conversa- 
tion on the rear platform Dick emerged from the 
company’s office an accepted candidate for Bill 
Geddings’ s place. The superintendent had ‘ ‘ liked 
his looks, ’ ’ had pronounced himself satisfied with 


288 


Pratt Portraits, 


Bill’s voucher, and had promptly enrolled the 
singularly familiar name of ‘ ‘ Richard Spencer ’ ’ 
on the list of conductors. 

It was with mixed feelings that the new con- 
ductor walked from the office. He had applied 
for the position in a reckless mood, and was sur- 
prised to find himself rather elated with his suc- 
cess. Quite apart from his frankly acknowledged 
hope of coercing his father, it was really very 
gratifying to know that an impartial judge seemed 
to consider him ‘ ‘ worth his salt. ’ ’ 

On the other hand, he was obliged to own that 
the immediate consequences of this startling pro- 
ceeding of his might be disagreeable, and it was 
not without misgivings that he contemplated 
breaking the news to his father. 

‘ ‘ It will be an all-round botheration for the dear 
old chap, ’ ’ he said to himself with some compunc- 
tion ; “I hope I can let him down easy.” 

His plan was to appear before the ” dear old 
chap” after his first day’s service, and state his 
case with as much moderation as he could com- 
mand. His own position was clear. He proposed 
to work in the company’s service until something 
better turned up, and he had sufficient confidence 
in his own often tested obstinacy to know that 
nothing was likely to shake his determination. 
Whether the effect on the “dear old chap’s” 
mind would be to hasten or to retard the consum- 
mation of his hopes was another question. 

Julie, at least, was all encouragement. She 


Well Matched. 


289 


considered his new venture a stroke of genius. 
She longed to see Dick in his brass buttons hand- 
ling the bell-punch with all the style he was sure 
to put into anything he did. She secretly be- 
lieved that he could have turned a hand-organ 
with distinction and success. 

Julie did not confess all this to Dick, but her 
confidence was very cheering ; and when he 
entered upon his new duties one morning at six 
o’clock, he felt as though he were wearing her 
colors. 

Now Mr. Richard Spencer was in the habit of 
driving to town every day in his own buggy ; but 
it so chanced that on this particular morning he 
patronized the horse-car. That in itself was a 
coincidence, but it would seem as though some 
mischievous kobold must have guided the steps 
of the unsuspecting old gentleman to cause him 
to board his son’s car. However that may be, 
this strange and untoward thing did happen. 

Dick had stated the night before that he should 
have an early breakfast, as he was going off for 
the day with another fellow, and his trusting 
family had enjoyed their morning repast un- 
troubled by any suspicion that that ‘ ‘ other 
fellow ’ ’ might be a brawny son of Erin employed 
as driver on the horse-railroad. 

Mr. Spencer’s conscience meanwhile had been 
effectually quieted, and his passing fears of a 
revolt on Dick’s part were consequently allayed. 

Having once seriously resolved to bestir himself, 
19 


290 


Pratt Portraits 


he was not the man to waste time, and he had been, 
for a week past, in correspondence with one of his 
friends, a manufacturer, who was in search of a 
junior partner with a fair capital, and sufficient 
pluck and perseverance to go through with the 
necessary apprenticeship in the business. The 
chance was exactly suited to Dick’s capacity, and, 
reflecting upon the pleasant surprise he had in 
store for the lad, Mr. Spencer walked to the 
horse-car with a light step and a light heart. As 
he reached the corner of the street he was grati- 
fled to see a car just at hand, and he stepped upon 
the platform before it had come to a full stop, with 
an ease and agility which a younger man, and 
one of lighter weight, might have envied. 

A bank director and railway magnate does not 
often vouchsafe a glance at a street-car conductor, 
and even the tremendous noise with which Dick 
was aware that his heart was thumping among 
his ribs failed to attract the passenger’s attention 
as he brushed past the conductor and entered 
the car. 

Dick promptly summoned his wits and gave 
the signal to start; but as he stood looking 
through the glass door at the silk hat, just visible 
over the morning paper behind which his father 
was hidden, he devoutly hoped that he might es- 
cape recognition. 

The car gradually filled up, and the time 
arrived for taking the fares. Dick grasped his 
bell-punch and passed from one to the other of 


Well Matched. 


291 


the passengers, collecting fares and manfully 
snapping the spring upon each ticket. He 
glanced furtively at that silk hat, and wondered 
that its wearer did not look up startled by the 
shrill tone of the bell, which sounded to his own 
ears like the crack of doom. But no one, not 
even the pale, nervous-looking women sprinkled 
along the seats, seemed to receive the slightest 
shock from the “infernal racket” the thing 
made. At last Dick arrived in front of the silk 
hat and the newspaper, and a cowardly wish 
possessed him to pass them by, since their owner 
seemed oblivious to the situation. But it is one 
thing to have cowardly wishes and quite another 
thing to be a coward, and Dick promptly said, as 
he was bound to do, “ Fares, please.” 

Mr. Richard Spencer mechanically put his 
thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket, glanc- 
ing up as he did so at the conductor with the 
familiar voice. For a moment the passenger 
seemed turned to stone, while he gazed into the 
eyes beneath the conductor’s cap, his newspaper 
slipping from his grasp, his fingers arrested in 
the act of pulling out a ticket. 

Then the blood rushed to his face, and he said 
sternly, though in an undertone, ‘ ‘ Quit your 
tomfoolery, Dick, and leave the conductor’s 
business alone.” 

“ I can’t very well do that, sir, as I ’m the con- 
ductor,” Dick answered, respectfully, while his 
heart hammered his ribs. His father looked at 


292 


Prait Portraits. 


him, at his cap and his badge, at his bell-punch. 
Here, then, was the trick he had feared, the defi- 
ance he had dreaded. Mr. Richard Spencer was 
no aristocrat, but this was carrying a joke a little 
too far. 

“ Get out of my sight,” he growled, between 
his set teeth. His eyes looked ominous. 

“When you ’ve paid your fare, sir.” 

“ I don’t propose to pay my fare.” 

Dick’s blood tingled. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, steadily, “ but you ’ll 
have to. ’ ’ 

Thus far the talk had been low, and not every 
one could hear what was said. But there was no 
one in the car who did not perceive that some- 
thing unusual was going forward. 

A man behind him pulled the conductor’s coat, 
and said, in a friendly growl, ‘ ‘ Go it easy, young 
chap ; that ’s the president of the road.” 

‘ ‘ I know it, ’ ’ Dick said, over his shoulder, in 
grateful recognition of a kind turn. But he stood 
like a rock before his contumacious passenger. 

Mr. Spencer had put the paper up before his 
face, but the lines went scalloping across the 
page, and in his consuming anger he took a grim 
pleasure in knowing that the object of it stood 
there defying him. It was fuel to the fire, and 
when once Mr. Richard Spencer’s passion was 
roused he gave himself over to it with a fierce 
satisfaction. 

Outwardly Dick had kept his self-control. He 


Well Matched, 


293 


had a pride in his new calling and a determina- 
tion to do his duty with propriety and temperate- 
ness. But there was a tempest within him which 
was a match for the passion of the elder man. 
He spoke very quietly. 

‘ ‘ My instructions, sir, are to carry no passenger 
over this road without the payment of a fare. I 
hope you will not force me to extreme measures.” 

At this crisis there was a touch on the conduc- 
tor’s shoulder, and a ticket was thrust before 
him. “Here, take that,” a voice whispered, 
“ and don’t rile the old chap any more.” 

“Thanks,” said Dick, as he punched the 
ticket and dropped it into his pocket. To his 
ears the bell had a triumphant clang. 

The old man had not seen the ticket. “You 
give it up, do you? ” he said, with a sneer, as 
Dick moved on to the next passenger. 

Dick’s eyes flashed. 

“Your fare has been paid, sir, by one of the 
other gentlemen. ’ ’ 

Then Mr. Spencer, rose, towering in his wrath, 
and pulled the strap with a vehemence that en- 
dangered the stout leather. 

“ The other gentleman is a meddlesome idiot, 
and you — ^you — -you are a blundering impostor ! ’ ’ 
And with this double anathema, the president of 
the Dunbridge Horse Railway stepped off" the car, 
and stood in the dust of the street, cooling his 
cheeks, but not the inward fires, in the pleasant 
breeze that blew about him. 


294 


Pratt Portraits. 


Poor Dick ! The sight of his father standing 
there, abandoned and exposed, would have been 
too much for him, had not the old man’s last 
words — “blundering impostor^’ — stung him to 
renewed resentment. 

As he turned to continue his duties, a general 
murmur of conversation arose. He caught 
snatches which made him miserably uncomforta- 
ble. 

‘ ‘ What ailed the old crank anyhow ? ’ ’ said 
one voice. 

“ I reckon he ’d been out on a bat,” another 
chuckled. 

“The young feller stood to his guns like a 
man, ’ ’ declared a third. 

At last Dick escaped onto the rear platform, 
where a shrewd-faced Yankee was leaning 
against the brake, contemplatively chewing to- 
bacco. 

As Dick appeared, he looked up inquiringly, 
and pointing his thumb over his shoulder, 
drawled : 

“ He war n’t tipsy naow, was he ? ” 

Dick flared up. “ Tipsy ! If I was off duty, 
I ’d flght the whole car-load of idiots. There ’s 
not one of them that ’s fit to black that man’s 
boots.” 

The Yankee gave the tobacco quid a twist with 
his tongue, and seemed to be making a study of 
Dick’s heated countenance. 

“Waal, I snum,” he said, drawling more than 


Well Matched, 


295 

ever. “ You ’re nigh about as peppery as the old 
one.” 

Then, with a slow dawning of intelligence, he 
added, “ I reckon you two have met before ^ 

It had been a disastrous beginning to the day, 
yet Dick was surprised to find how soon the pain- 
ful impression wore off. There was an unreality 
about the whole situation which made it seem like 
a dream or a bit of fiction. He could not 
thoroughly believe in his own part in it, and yet 
there was just a sufiicient sense of identity to give 
zest to the little drama. He found himself in a 
new attitude toward the great public. The 
absurd inquiries, which must become so tiresome 
to an old hand, had for him the charm of novelty. 
The old ladies, with their unaccountable agita- 
tion and their hesitating steps, called out all his 
chivalry. The toddling children found in him a 
ready friend and helper, as they vaguely lifted 
their chubby feet in the general direction of the 
lower step. When his own acquaintances ap- 
peared from time to time, the interest became still 
more lively. Tadies greeted him with undis- 
guised astonishment, while the men joined him 
on the platform, and did not hesitate to ‘ ‘ pump ’ ’ 
him vigorously. Before night the town was all 
agog on the subject. Every one knew that Dick 
Spencer was conductor on the horse-railroad, and 
every one chuckled over the situation, and won- 
dered how the ‘ ‘ president ’ ’ liked it. 

By noon Dick’s spirits had risen so high that 


296 


Pratt Portraits, 


he was once very near getting himself into 
trouble. 

It happened that a stout, pompous woman 
motioned him to stop the car at a street corner 
just as he had his hands full of change, and he 
was a little late in pulling the strap. The driver 
was also a little slow with the brake, and the 
portly passenger gazed with kindling indignation 
at the gradually receding vision of her garden 
gate. When at last the car had come to a full 
stop, she arose in her majesty and approached the 
door. Arrived on the platform she turned to 
Dick, and said severely : 

“Conductor, why did n’t you stop the car at 
my corner 9 ’ ’ 

This was too much for Dick’s discretion. With 
an air of elaborate apology, he said : “I beg your 
pardon, madam ; I did n’t know you had a 
comer. ’ ’ 

Then, as she flashed upon him a malignant 
look, he added, meekly, “ I will be more careful 
another time. ’ ’ 

The good woman’s wrath was tempered with 
perplexity, and by the time Dick had gallantly 
assisted her from the platform, there was that in 
her countenance which told him that he was for- 
given. The danger was averted for that time, 
but the incident gave Dick an entirely new feel- 
ing of self-distrust, and he resolved to cultivate 
the virtue of stolidity. 

As the day passed, and he became a little 


Well Matched, 


297 


accustomed to the amusing masquerade, Dick’s 
mood grew more serious. Recollections of his 
father’s discomfiture would intrude themselves 
upon him. He could not pass the spot, where he 
had last seen the old man standing in the dust, 
without a feeling of strong compunction, and he 
fairly hated himself when he thought of the r6le 
which had been so tmexpectedly forced upon him. 
He was pondering these things in a rather dismal 
frame of mind as he stood on the rear platform of 
his almost empty car, early in the evening of the 
same day. The exhilaration of novelty was past, 
and he found himself brought face to face with 
certain distasteful facts. 

He knew his father’s temper (and perhaps his 
own) too well to hope for a speedy reconciliation, 
and he was obliged to admit that the prospect of 
an indefinite term of service on the horse-railroad 
was not altogether pleasing to contemplate. In 
vain he told himself that it was independence, and 
that independence was all he had desired. The 
irrevocableness of the situation — and young 
people are ever ready with the word ‘ ‘ irrevoc- 
able” — taught him that what he had taken for 
independence was nothing but a respectable 
servitude. 

It was still broad daylight. He stood with his 
back planted against the end of the car, and his 
hands in his pockets, gazing gloomily at the re- 
ceding city. The road was deserted ; but in the 
distance he noticed a buggy approaching, as it 


298 


Pratt Portraits. 


seemed to him, rather fast. As it got nearer, he 
could see that the vehicle rocked from side to 
side. Yes, it was a runaway, and a wild one at 
that. Dick turned a quick glance up the road. 
There were no teams in sight, but, a few rods 
ahead, a railroad crossed the street, and he could 
see the smoke of an approaching train coming 
round the curve. The driver had stopped the car 
without waiting for a signal. Dick had just time 
to fling his coat off and leap to the ground ; and 
even in the act of doing so he recognized one of his 
father’s horses and saw a broken rein dragging 
under the animal’s feet. He did not dare to look 
beyond, where the old man sat, erect and rigid, 
in the swaying buggy, his keen eyes fixed upon 
that curling smoke, mind and body braced for 
the shock. 

As the maddened creature dashed by, Dick flung 
himself across his neck, seized the bit with both 
hands, and jerked the iron curb together with 
a force that almost broke the jaw. Arrested by 
the sharp agony, the horse reared wildly, Dick 
kept his clutch upon the bits, and as he felt him- 
self lifted in the air, he shouted : “ Get out — 
quick — get out ! ’ ’ 

The horse came crashing down with one leg 
over the shafts, and Dick, flung free of the strug- 
gling beast, felt a deadly pain in his arm, heard 
the shrill whistle of the engine as the train thun- 
dered over the crossing, and then he felt and 
heard no more. As his father lifted him in his 


Well Matched. 


299 

arms, the bell-punch dangled heavily across the 
old man’s knee, but the conductor’s cap lay 
crushed beneath the feet of the men who had 
hurried to the spot to disentangle the frightened 
horse. 

After all, a broken arm is no great matter, and 
Dick had much and various cause for thankful- 
ness. But it was long before Dick’s father could 
think with composure of that short but awful 
moment. 

The next morning, as they sat together in the 
library, the disabled arm in a sling, the owner of 
the arm somewhat pale, but very happ}^, Dick 
learned of the business opening which had been 
preparing for him. His father did not tell him 
how, in his wrath, he had already taken steps tow- 
ard cancelling the negotiations with his friend the 
manufacturer. Dick, however, suspected it, and 
hisT mother, who had borne the brunt of her hus- 
band’ s “ state of mind ” on that trying yesterday, 
sat by, in blissful mood, once more rendering 
thanks for a great deliverance. 

Mr. Spencer was old-fashioned enough to give 
his son much good counsel on this occasion, to 
which Dick listened with unbounded faith and 
respect. His father wound up by saying : 
‘ ‘ When I went into business, my uncle, William 
Pratt, gave me one bit of advice which covers the 
whole ground. He said : ‘ It ’s not so much 
matter what you do, Richard, so you do it devilish 
well.’” 


300 


Pratt Portraits. 


Then, with a sudden burst of magnanimity, 
the old man added, “We ’ll forget that wretched 
conductoring business as fast as possible ; but I 
will say, Dick, that you did it ‘ devilish well.’ ” 

“And nothing ‘became him like the leaving 
it,’ ” Mrs. Spencer added, with glistening eyes, 
as she laid her hand gently on Dick’s bandaged 
arm. 

“Ah, Dick, you beggar,” said his father 
rather huskily, and getting up from his chair 
with the instinct of flight, “that ’s something 
we can’t talk about.” 

“Oh, I say,” Dick cried, growing very red 
in the face, “ don’t be so awful good to a fellow. 
I ought to have been thrashed. ’ ’ 

And all having thus made a clean breast of the 
matter, these three warm-hearted people began 
to feel a little shamefaced, and with one accord 
endeavored to dispel the emotions which their 
Puritan blood made them shy of acknowledging. 

Then Dick told his father and mother about 
Julie. 


XIII. 


UNCLE BOBBY. 

U ncle bobby was a poet. That was why 
he had made a failure of life ; that was 
why his hair had grown gray in an un- 
equal contest with the realities of this 
prosaic world. 

Uncle Bobby was a poet. That too was why 
his latter days were days of pleasantness and 
peace. Life, like a wise mother who has disci- 
plined her child, took him gently by the hand 
and gave him of her best and sweetest. For the 
best and sweetest is not a matter of circumstance 
— it is not even success and love. It is being in 
tune. And Uncle Bobby was in tune like an in- 
strument whose strings have yielded to a master 
hand. To-day he was sitting in his ‘ ‘ yacht, ’ ’ as 
he had dubbed his tiny row-boat, his oars bal- 
anced idly, floating with the tide up the salt- 
water creek behind Pleasant Point. A stranger 
might not have guessed that he was a poet. From 
his gray felt hat slouched comfortably against the 
sun, down to the huge rubber waders encasing 
feet and legs, there was nothing aesthetic to be 
301 


302 


Pratt Portraits. 


discovered. Corduroy trousers, to be sure, when 
judiciously cut, and especially if pausing just be- 
low the knee, may have a genial air. But the 
dingy corduroys worn by Uncle Bobby were not 
of a genial cut, nor did they disappear into the 
waders with any promise of stopping short of the 
solid, matter-of-fact instep of their owner. As to 
the alpaca sack-coat, it may be doubted whether 
any cut could lend an air of distinction to that 
highly inappropriate material, while even the pic- 
turesque possibilities of a gray flannel shirt were 
quite lost beneath an ancient black vest, from the 
pocket of which dangled an old-fashioned fob. 

Furthermore, Uncle Bobby’s face was of that 
florid cast which is manifestly unpoetic, and his 
blue eyes, not over large, were more inclined to 
lend themselves to fun than to inspiration. There 
was always a twinkle lurking somewhere in the 
background, ready to come to the surface, as 
promptly as the ripple stirs a quiet sheet of 
water at the faintest whisper of a summer 
breeze. Uncle Bobby’s nose, a prominent feature, 
was also florid, and its rich tone was finely set off 
in contrast with the thick gray moustache which 
was its nearest neighbor. This moustache was 
military in its character, and of a darker, sterner 
hue than the benignant white hair, which was 
soft and fine as silk. On the whole, though not a 
poetical-looking personage. Uncle Bobby, in spite 
of his old clothes, might fairly have been called 
‘ ‘ a fine figmre of a man. ’ ’ Tall and erect, though 


Uncle Bobby. 


303 


portly, too, he might easily have passed muster 
as an army officer, while as judge of the supreme 
court, he would have made a highly creditable 
appearance. But as a poet? No. Not by the 
last stretch of imagination could he have been 
dressed or drilled or dragged into the remotest 
semblance of a poet. As he sat there, idly drift- 
ing up the creek, and looking rather cumbersome 
in his little boat, which he maintained was “just 
a fit,” he held between his teeth a small brier- 
wood pipe. The pipe had gone out, but it was 
evidently at home in the situation. 

There was another thing about Uncle Bobby. 
He had never in his life written a line of poetry, 
nor did he often read any. If he had done so, he 
would probably have admired the wrong things, 
things wherein sentiment predominated over im- 
agination, things about old blind organ-grinders 
or broken-hearted maidens, or possibly the story 
of some faithful dog, starving to death on his 
master’s grave. He had no taste, for instance, 
for descriptions of natural scenery with moral re- 
flections thrown in . Especially poems descriptive 
of the sea failed to interest him. His friends 
would sometimes enclose in their letters cuttings 
from the “ Poet’s Corner,” in which the English 
language was exhausted in the well-meaning 
effort to conjure up a vision of the sea to the read- 
er’s mind. Uncle Bobby politely admitted that 
the description was somewhat like the ocean, but 
then, the ocean was not one bit like the descrip- 


304 


Pratt Portraits, 


tion ; and he would forget the futile verses in a 
wordless reverie upon that great, changing, musi- 
cal, living poem spread out before his chamber 
windows, whispering to his tiny boat, drawing 
his thoughts away, far beyond the thought of the 
vast sea itself, out and beyond, where imagination 
grew dim in horizons that no ship has ever neared. 
And so it will be seen that Uncle Bobby, in spite 
of his imperfect equipment, was a poet — was a 
poet to-day even, as he sat with his pipe between 
his lips, drifting with the tide up into the heart 
of the marshes. 

A small cat-boat went tacking across his stem. 
Uncle Bobby left his oars to the care of the patent 
row-locks, and their blades touched the water, 
sending up a little shower of jewels on either side. 

‘ ‘ Ah there ! ’ ’ cried Uncle Bobby, taking his 
pipe from his lips. 

“ Ah, there. Uncle Bobby ! ” 

“ Bound for Great Isle?” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” 

The cat-boat slipped slowly away on a new 
tack, and Uncle Bobby, much refreshed by the en- 
counter, proceeded to knock out the dead ashes 
against the boat-side and stow the pipe away for 
later service. Then he took to his oars and 
rowed in a leisurely manner up the stream. He 
looked about from time to time with the quick 
eye of the sportsman, but the gun at his feet was 
really there more for the sake of company than 
for anything else. It was not the time of day for 


Uncle Bobby. 


305 


sport. The tide, with its beautiful impartiality, 
sometimes sides with the birds — too often. Uncle 
Bobby thought, and he would hardly have admit- 
ted that the game might be of a different opinion. 
Uncle Bobby was a tender-hearted man, but 
“ yellow-legs ” and plover, black duck and “ old- 
squaws,” were so clearly invented for purposes 
of sport that he firmly believed that they too were 
quite in the spirit of it. 

The tide had paused, as it does when at the 
highest, and Uncle Bobby paused too. Again he 
let his oars rest on the water, while he took off 
his hat and wiped his brow. His forehead within 
the line of the hat was white as snow. “Jest like 
his soul,” old Marm Hawkins used to say. 
“ Uncle Bobby’s soul ’s jest as white as a baby’s, 
where ’t ain’t ben roughened up by this wicked 
world that was allers sot agin him. Ef Uncle 
Bobby ’d allers lived long of us, they never ’d 
ha’ ben a mark on him, an’ I don’ know ’s they ’s 
any marks on him now. When he fust come 
down to stay at Jenkinses, he used to hev his ups 
an’ downs, same ’s the rest of us, an’ he war n’t 
allers sech good compny ’s the Lord meant him 
for. But now ! Lord a massy ! He ’s jest like an 
innicent child, with his kind heart and ludikerous 
sayins. They ain’t nobody I ’d ruther smoke a 
pipe with, than Uncle Bobby ! ” 

And many a pipe the two cronies smoked to- 
gether by the side of Marm Hawkins’s air-tight 

stove. 

20 


3o6 


Pratt Portraits. 


Uncle Bobby bad not always borne that engag- 
ing title. In his days of feverish striving he had 
been known as Robert Pratt, the Visionary. 
From the time when, hardly more than a baby, 
he had delighted in his mother’s singing of 
stirring old ballads, from the time when she, 
a visionary like himself, had talked to him of a 
wonderful future, he had had great ambitions. 
The poet that was in him then, as now, saw all 
the possibilities of happiness and success that life 
has in its gift, and the impulse onward and up- 
ward and outward was very strong. But the 
world is too prosaic for poets to deal with, and so 
Robert Pratt failed. It seemed a pity, for he had 
many talents ; too many, perhaps. He played, 
by instinct it seemed, all the musical instruments 
he could lay hands on, his gift of mimicry was 
something wonderful, he was full of mechanical 
ingenuity, and even in matters of finance he had 
flashes of insight, which, joined to a practical 
shrewdness that was lacking, would have been 
the making of his fortune. But alas ! he lost 
more money than ever he made ; his inventions 
fell just short of the mark ; his music never made 
itself heard in the world. 

Yet why should one say alas ? Would any de- 
gree of success, of wealth, of reputation, have put 
him in tune as he was to-day, — musing in his 
boat, looking abroad on the marshes ? Would a 
successful man have found time to sit there rock- 
ing with the turning tide, bathing his soul in the 


Uncle Bobby, 


307 


sunshine and the beauty of the quiet hour? 
Would a rich man have felt the pride of owner- 
ship in all that exquisite color, in those reaches 
of marsh and of sea ; would a famous man have 
been left in peace, day after day, to live his own 
life and think his own thoughts, with no more 
importunate neighbor than old Marm Hawkins 
with her quavering voice and hobbling step? 
Uncle Bobby did not know he was a poet. He 
did not know that the deep content in which he 
habitually dwelt was something rare in this rest- 
less world. He did not know that the smell of 
the salt air was more delicious to him than to 
others, that the country side was fairer, the sea 
wider, the old lobster- houses and fishing-smacks 
prettier in his eyes than in the eyes of his neigh- 
bors. He often looked wistfully down the vista 
of years to the distant past, and he fancied it 
fairer than the present. But then he had the 
past, too, as a part of the poem of life. Down 
that dim vista shone one sweet girlish face, one 
sweet girlish voice echoed low and clear. More 
than forty years ago that voice had been hushed, 
that face had been shut away from the sun, yet 
death could not complete his conquest over gentle 
Annie Wells so long as her old lover lived. 

Uncle Bobby was a bachelor, but he did not feel 
in the least like one. What had he in common with 
those loveless beings who grow old and cranky in 
the pride of celibacy ? He, for his part, had no 
patience with old bachelors. 


3o8 


Pratt Portraits. 


There was a certain little poem which Uncle 
Bobby wore always in his pocket. When the 
paper became thin and yellow he had sewed with 
his own hands a silk covering for it, and that in 
its turn was worn and faded. The poem was one 
which Annie had cut out of a newspaper and 
given him a little while before she died. These 
are the words : 

“Ivcan closer, darling, I must speak 
So very, very low. 

Lean closer, till I touch your cheek 
And feel your tears that flow. 

“ Lean closer, dear, for I must try. 

Though it should break my heart, 

To say the cruel word good-bye 
Bre you and I do part. 

“ Yet hush ! my darling, heard you not 
An echo faint and far. 

From fairer futures half forgot. 

Beyond the evening star ? 

“ Beyond the wondrous evening star, 

Where all is joy and peace, 

’ T is there good-byes are faint and far, 

Where welcomes never cease.” 

A poor little poem enough, but the one poem 
in the world for Uncle Bobby. Years ago he had 
set these words to music, and words and music 
had blended into something so very beautiful to 
his mind, that he had written them out and had 


Uncle Bobby. 


309 


them published. But when his cousin Arabella 
Spencer sang the song to him in her well-mean- 
ing but inadequate treble, he had experienced a 
sudden horror of what he had done, of the harsh 
treatment his modest little song would have to 
bear, and he had withdrawn the edition, and 
that was the end of his musical career. Only ten 
copies had been sold, and he hoped they might 
soon be lost. 

The music sometimes haunted him, but to-day 
it was far from his thoughts. His mood was 
purely contemplative. Not a single long-drawn 
breath of the brimming creek escaped him, not a 
motion of the tall marsh grass, standing shoulder 
high in the pulsating tide. He watched, with 
quiet amusement, the elaborate twistings and 
windings of an eel among the sea- weed, the busi- 
ness-like preoccupation of a wicked old crab in the 
muddy ooze below, and when a soft-breasted sea- 
swallow alighted on the stem of the boat, an in- 
describable look of tenderness came into Uncle 
Bobby’s blue eyes, and he sat motionless until 
the light- winged visitant had departed. The 
‘ ‘ yacht ’ ’ had turned with the tide, and was 
drifting homeward, guided only by an occasional 
dip of the right oar or the left. 

As she touched the beach Uncle Bobby planted 
his big waders in the water, and went splashing 
up the incline, hauling the boat up beyond high- 
water mark, where he dropped a miniature anchor 
in the sand. Then he made everything ship- 


310 


Pratt Portraits. 


shape in the tidy little craft, which was perhaps 
the best beloved of his sea-side cronies. He un- 
screwed the revolving seat, which he had ingen- 
iously made out of the skeleton top of an old 
music-stool. “That ’s so that I can have the 
game handy if they fly the wrong way,” he 
would explain ; adding, confidentially, “ Game 
are so flighty. ’ ’ 

In the stem of the ‘ ‘ yacht ’ ’ was a snug little 
locker, where he stowed away his cartridges and 
his tobacco cuddy, and where a brandy flask and 
a box of crackers lay in wait against possible fogs. 
Here was also a small tin box which was usually 
well-stocked with checkerberry lozenges ; his 
honhonnt^re he called it, with a grand flourish 
when he ofiered it to lady passengers. The 
‘ ‘ yacht ’ ’ was too small for the accommodation of 
more than one passenger, but when Uncle Bobby 
was socially inclined he would organize a little 
fleet, and with his own boat as flag-ship, would 
escort a picked party from the boarding-house up 
the creek ; or, if the day was exceptionally calm, 
they would put boldly out to sea and make for 
Great Isle, a couple of miles to the northward. 
No one else could get up such a party at Pleasant 
Point, for no one else could wheedle the fisher- 
men into cleaning up their boats and letting them 
out. It was a treat to see Uncle Bobby deal with 
the cantankerous owner of a jolly little “cat.” 
He would saunter up to the water’ s edge, j ust as the 
man was trying to think of a new “ cuss- word” 


Uncle Bobby. 


311 

for an ugly wind which twisted the ropes out of 
his hands as he was trying to make things fast. 

“ Good-moming, Mr. Kimball,” Uncle Bobby 
would shout at the top of his voice ; ‘ ‘ the mos- 
quitoes seem to be plaguing you ! ” 

“ Mr. Kimball,” otherwise known as “ Pickerel 
Pete,” would look up with a wintry grin, and 
shout back, ” At it again. Uncle Bobby ! ” Upon 
which Uncle Bobby would wade out through the 
foaming shallows and lend a hand. 

“Well-mannered little craft that,” he would 
say, giving a neat twist to a rebellious rope. 
“ I ’ve got a friend who would give his best hat 
to take her out some morning.” 

“Prettiest cat-boat on the shore,” would be 
the next observation, as the two, having sub- 
jugated the rigging, tramped heavily in their 
wet boots across the sand. “ I say, Mr. Kimball, 
you ’re a good judge of the weather. Think this 
kind of thing ’s going to last ? ” 

“ Uast ? Bless you, no! It ’s only a fair- 
weather breeze. We shall have a mill-pond out- 
side by to-morrow morning. What caper have 
you got on hand for to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, nothing but a little picnic, if we can get 
hold of the boats. Don’t s’ pose, now, you ’d 
spare yours, Mr. Kimball ? ” 

“Yes you do. Uncle Bobby. You s’pose I ’d 
be jest fool enough to let your fine, stuck-up city 
friends have her. You ’re countin’ on ’t sure ’s a 
gun.” 


312 


Pratt Portraits. 


“ Well, I ’m much obliged to you, Mr. Kim- 
ball. I always thought you were the most 
accommodating man on the shore. We shall 
start about eight o’clock. And, I say. Captain,” 
as the fisherman beat a retreat into his own cot- 
tage, “don’t forget to send along the mosquito- 
netting. They ’re pretty thick between this and 
Great Isle.” 

But if Uncle Bobby enjoyed an occasional jun- 
keting, he liked better still, for the most part, to 
“ gang his ain gait.” And he never felt better 
satisfied with the way his time had been passed, 
than when he had spent a morning up the creek 
with his gun for company. To-day he knew that 
Mrs. Jenkins had been preparing one of her clam- 
chowders, which, to Uncle Bobby’s palate, amply 
represented soup and fish, solids and sweets. 
There was a time when Uncle Bobby aspired to 
champagne and French cookery to his dinner, 
— before he really knew his own tastes and needs. 
That was long ago, when he thought he must 
have Italian opera, though he should never hear 
again the deep baritone of the surf or the twitter 
of the sea-swallow ; when he fancied he must 
own richly framed oil paintings, over which no 
changing lights nor brooding shadows ever 
swept. He had not heard so much as a concert 
now for several years, and all his pictures, save 
one, had been sold. That one was a chromo 
which he had picked up at auction for a dollar 
and a half, frame and all. The chromo had done 


Uncle Bobby, 


313 


for him a service which, as all are agreed, lies 
outside the province of art. It had taught him a 
lesson. 

It came about in this wise, long before the 
Pleasant Point days. Uncle Bobby had been specu- 
lating rather wildly. He had an impression that 
riches were power. He did not know precisely 
how he should use such power if he had it, but 
he thought he should like to have a try at it. 
The child who chases a will-o’-the wisp till he is 
knee-deep in a swamp, does not know what he 
wants of it. It is bright and it dances away from 
him. Therefore he covets it. And Uncle Bobby, 
who was in very comfortable circumstances, who 
had not a chick nor a child to give his money to, 
nor any definite purpose for it whatever, had a 
notion that he wanted to be rich. So he risked 
everything in a “big venture,” and when that 
failed, he sold his horses and sent his piano and 
his pictures to auction. He happened in on the 
day of the sale and was strongly tempted to bid 
high on his own possessions. Then his eye fell 
upon the chromo. It represented a man standing 
on the brink of a stream fishing. He had hooked 
a huge fellow whose weight was breaking the 
rod. In his agitation he had upset a basket, out 
of which poured a stream of little fishes, joyfully 
wriggling back into the water. His hat had 
blown off and was floating down stream, his coat 
was bursting out under the arms, and in his 
flushed face and staring eyes was all the excite- 


3H 


Pratt Portraits, 


ment of the gambler who has staked everything 
on a losing game. Uncle Bobby gazed, fascinated, 
at the picture, and when it was put up for sale he 
was the only bidder, and he got it cheap. 

This happened in New York, whither he had 
drifted in his quest after wealth and fame, and in 
that human wilderness he lived the life of a her- 
mit for many years, years of dull routine, some- 
times in the employ of a fickle government, 
sometimes in no employ at all. Occasionally, 
when he signed his name, he was reminded of all 
the prosperous, well-to-do Pratts, who had been 
content to lead reasonable lives in his native town 
of Dunbridge. After the death of his mother — 
that gifted and fascinating Emmeline Pratt whose 
memory was still green in the paths she had trod, 
— there was no tie strong enough remaining to 
draw him back to his own people. The most 
genial of men in prosperity, he felt a shrinking 
from old associations, now that he had made a 
failure of the game of life. He could still crack 
a joke with his landlady or the bootblack ; he 
could still toss a coin from his scanty store to 
cheer a beggar ; but, for his own part, he was a 
hermit in a wilderness, in that waste of brick 
walls and smoky air which is so much drearier 
than nature’s wildernesses. 

There came a time when Uncle Bobby fell ill, 
and had to keep his bed. As he lay there, pass- 
ing in review the twenty cheerless years since he 
had had anything in particular to live for, he 


Uncle Bobby. 


315 


rather wondered that he did not wish to die. His 
chief diversion in the lonely days of convales- 
cence was the contemplation of the old chromo 
which hung on his chamber wall. He thought 
he had learned its lesson pretty well. He had re- 
sisted the temptation to speculate with the small 
sum saved from the wreck of his fortunes, though 
it scarcely yielded him his board and lodging. In 
those days of slowly returning health, he took a 
grim pleasure in looking at the desperate fisher- 
man on the bank. That wretched gambler was 
clearly losing his foothold on the very ground 
beneath him, and was slipping down into the 
stream. He, at least, Robert Pratt, had kept his 
head above water. 

One morning his reflections took another turn. 
What good sport it used to be to go fishing ! 
How many years it was since he had had any 
sport at all ! And with a rush of memory the 
old days of his youth came back to him, when 
he used to go “ down East ’’for a summer holi- 
day. The more he thought about it the more his 
thoughts clung to the old memories, the more 
ardently he longed for the old delights. 

Ten days from that time Uncle Bobby came, a 
travel-stained pilgrim, to Pleasant Point — travel- 
stained from the long and weary journey of life. 

Htunan things had changed a good deal at 
Pleasant Point. The few straggling fishermen’s 
huts had given place to a collection of tidy green 
and white cottages, a flourishing boarding-house 


3i6 


Pratt Portraits. 


had sprung up, where sportsmen with their wives 
and daughters were wont to congregate. The 
“Old Shanty” up the creek, where young Bob 
Pratt and his boon companions had many a time 
gone to camp out, had disappeared to the last 
shingle. 

Robert Pratt, grown old in mind and body 
since those days, rowed up the creek and landed 
at the foot of the little bluff where the Old 
Shanty once stood. He wore his city clothes, 
and smoked a cigar. He looked out across the 
creek and the tongue of land built up with cot- 
tages, and there, over beyond, was his old friend, 
the ocean. 

Yes, human things had changed ; but what of 
that ? Robert Pratt had had enough of human 
things. What he wanted now was something 
genuine and permanent. And there was the 
faithful coast-line, strong and unchanged, the 
ocean, gleaming blue beyond the pine-trees that 
fringed the beach. He knew their breath was as 
sweet as of old ; he could almost hear the mur- 
muring sea-breeze among their storm-wracked 
branches. He watched the sea-gulls circling in 
the sun, the sails standing out white or gray 
against the horizon. Once more he felt the 
strong tonic of the salt air with its bountiful re- 
newal. There was an exhilaration in it all which 
he had not known for years. He laid his hat 
down on the low-creeping junipers, and let the 
air sweep his brow. Suddenly the lapping of 


Uncle Bobby. 


317 


the tide on the rocks below struck his ear and 
touched his heart. The tired eyes filled, and for 
a moment the sunny day was veiled to his sight. 

It is not often that such a thing happens to a 
man of sixty, a man too, not given to self-pity. 
When it does it may mean many things. To- 
day it meant that Robert Pratt in his city clothes 
would smoke no more cigars on the site of the 
Old Shanty. After that it was Uncle Bobby with 
his brierwbod pipe who lingered among the juni- 
pers. He would take his New York Herald up 
there, and read of the doings of men in the world 
outside, and that echo of worldly turmoil only 
deepened the sense of security and peace. The 
fishermen sailing by, and the boys and girls 
out on a picnic, got the habit of looking up as they 
passed that particular bluff, hoping to catch a 
sight of Uncle Bobby’s paper gleaming in the 
sun. 

“ Boat ahoy. Uncle Bobby ! ” the shrill voices 
would call, and Uncle Bobby would stand up, 
and wave his New York Herald, which fluttered 
as gayly in the breeze as though it were not black 
with the record of sins and follies of thwarted 
ambitions and cruel successes. And likely as not 
a jest would drop down among them, a jolly, 
good-humored jest that would not lose its relish 
all day long. 

Uncle Bobby’s jokes were considered wonders of 
wit. In fact there was nothing like Uncle Bobby’s 
fun unless it was his kindness. He was hand in 


Pratt Portraits, 


318 

glove with every Pleasant Pointer, big and little, 
and welcome as the sun at every cottage door. 
“ There comes Uncle Bobby ! ” the youngsters 
would cry, and leave their play to hear him talk. 
It was just like going nutting in the fall. You 
never could tell when a great bouncing joke 
might come popping plump onto your own head. 
The comparison was suggested to the more 
imaginative among the children by Uncle Bob- 
by’s avowal that the jokes were, half of them, 
chestnuts. “We like chestnuts,” sturdy Billy 
Jenkins maintained, and all the boys and girls 
were of the same mind. But Uncle Bobby did 
himself injustice. He made more new jokes 
than old ones. Funny notions were constantly 
coming into his head. Since he had become an 
out-and-out Pleasant Pointer his humor was so 
gay, the sunshine had so saturated his being, 
that the gleams and glints were always going on 
in his brain. 

Uncle Bobby was no ‘ ‘ summer boarder ’ ’ at 
Pleasant Point. He and the old chromo were 
fixtures there. He occasionally spent a winter 
month with his Dunbridge relatives, but though 
it seemed very pleasant and “folksy” among 
them, now that he had made his peace with life 
in general, yet he was always glad to get back to 
Pleasant Point with its whistling storms and 
tossing surf. He did not live at Ormsby’s, 
the big boarding-house, but with Sol Jenkins, a 
prosperous householder who ran the express 


Uncle Bobby. 


319 


wagon out over the causeway to the railroad 
station twice a day. He brought in the mail and 
any stray passengers who were not otherwise pro- 
vided for. Sol was an all-round genius of the 
variety rarely found out of Yankeeland, and 
Uncle Bobby delighted in him, as he had never 
delighted in brother or friend before. Sol’s droll 
sayings and dry philosophy were better than all 
the books, and his ingenious doings as good as a 
play. 

Mrs. Sol Jenkins was a famous cook, and just 
the kindest woman in the world, or so Uncle 
Bobby said. It was really surprising how many 
of the kindest and smartest people in the world 
Uncle Bobby discovered at Pleasant Point. The 
side of folks that was turned toward him always 
blossomed and bloomed as plants do toward the 
sun. 

Now on the day when Uncle Bobby drifted up 
the creek and back again — the day when the 
sea-swallow twittered his little lay on the stern of 
the boat, — there was a new arrival at the board- 
ing-house, a handsome, stately woman attended 
by a retinue of friends. And by the time Uncle 
Bobby had made fast the ‘ ‘ yacht ’ ’ on the beach 
behind the village, and was strolling homeward 
in the well-founded hope of a clam-chowder, the 
rumor had gone abroad, that the new arrival was 
no other than Kate Alton, the great contralto 
singer, whose fame had reached even Pleasant 
Point. There was a flutter of excitement through- 


320 


Pratt Portraits. 


out the little community, for Miss Alton’s good- 
nature was almost as well known and almost as 
phenomenal as her voice. Yet Uncle Bobby, who 
had seen something of prima donnas in his day, 
hardly thought it likely that she would sing, 
and after supper he betook himself with his pipe 
to Mann Hawkins’s for a quiet smoke. Uncle 
Bobby liked to sit out-of-doors in the pleasant 
August evenings, but then, Marm Hawkins 
liked his company in her stuffy little ‘ ‘ settin 
room,” and without thinking much about the 
matter. Uncle Bobby found it about as natural to 
indulge his old neighbor’s whims as his own. 
So there he sat, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco 
smoke, discussing the weather and the vagaries 
of the deep-sea fish, when a messenger came to 
summon him to Ormsby’s — Miss Alton had con- 
sented to sing. 

“ Has she sung anything yet ? ” asked Uncle 
Bobby, as his feet crunched the powdered white 
shells of the road. 

“ No ! I guess not. She seemed to be un- 
furlin’ her main-sail when I come away. It 
takes them big craft some time to git under 
weigh.” 

But as they approached Ormsby’s a superb 
voice came sweeping out into the twilight. Uncle 
Bobby stopped to listen, while his companion 
trudged on ahead. The music rose and fell like 
the very bosom of the deep, and a hot flush 
burned on Uncle Bobby’s cheek. 


Uncle Bobby. 


321 


“ Gad ! but she can sing,” he muttered to him- 
self, as the song ended and he hurried forward. 
As he came up the piazza steps he saw that there 
was bright lamplight and a crowd of people in the 
parlor. Outside the air was sweet and cool, and 
the darkness was already creeping over the 
waters. Uncle Bobby sat himself down in a chair 
close to one of the open parlor windows. He 
could hear the murmur of conversation within, 
and a rustle of dresses, as the people discussed 
their small impressions of that great voice. Uncle 
Bobby sat, still smoking his pipe, looking out 
across the open ocean. 

Presently a hush fell upon the company, and a 
clear voice said : “ Now I am going to sing for 
you my favorite song.” 

A strangely familiar chord was struck, melting 
then away into a plaintive succession of notes. 
Uncle Bobby took his pipe from his mouth and 
started forward, with an intent look on his ruddy 
face. The quiet prelude ceased and there was an 
instant’s pause. Then the voice of the great 
singer murmured rather than sang : 

“ lyean closer, darling, I must speak 
So very, very low.” 

The simple words floated out on the music 
with a thrilling pathos that was almost too 
poignantly sweet to bear. Within the room the 
people held their breath to listen, while the white 
head outside sank forward, till the light from the 


322 


Pratt Portraits, 


parlor window fell upon it like a halo. The 
music was singularly beautiful. In that hour 
Uncle Bobby felt it, though he almost forgot that 
it was his own. Then came the change in the 
harmony — that change which had made his heart 
beat high when first it dawned in his brain. The 
noble voice rose to its full volume, and rang forth 
on the words 

“ Beyond the wondrous evening star,” 

melting again into a vibrating sweetness with 
the last line, 

“ Where welcomes never cease.” 

For an instant after the final chord died away 
no one spoke or moved. Then there was a burst 
of applause. When it ceased. Uncle Bobby heard 
the singer answering questions. He wished she 
would not put that voice of hers to such a prosaic 
use as talking. He drew back in his chair, that 
he might not be seen from within. 

“ I don’t know anything about the composer 
but his name, ’ ’ Miss Alton was saying. 

‘ ‘ But where did you get the piece ? ’ ’ asked a 
summer boarder, who “ sang a little herself.” 

“ I found it among some old music of my 
mother’s. I came across it when I was a young 
girl, and I fell in love with it. Indeed, I was 
singing that song when it first came over me that I 
had a voice.” 

“Won’t you sing it again?” some one 
begged. 


Uncle Bobby, 


3^3 


Miss Alton laughed. 

“ I thought you would ask me to,” she said, 
“ I never yet sang it to an audience that I did not 
have a recall, and I always repeat the song 
because I know that is what they want.” 

And then she sang it again, and it sounded 
even more beautiful than before. Uncle Bobby 
looked forth across the sea, to where a golden 
planet shone out, and a sudden calm fell upon 
him, as though he had known all along how 
beautiful his music was, and as though it really 
made no very great difference that others had 
found it out, since it was good music either way. 

Again the applause was sounding in his ears, 
and now Uncle Bobby’s mind had wandered from 
the music to the star, that was burning clearer 
every moment. Suddenly he heard his name. 

“Yes,” Miss Alton had been saying, “the 
publisher is dead, and I have never been able to 
find out anything about Robert Kingsbury Pratt. 
I am afraid he is dead too.” 

Here other voices took up the name. “ Robert 
Kingsbury Pratt ! Why, Uncle Bobby’s middle 
name begins with a K!” — and cries of “Uncle 
Bobby ! Uncle Bobby ! Where ’s Uncle Bobby ! ” 
rose on every hand. 

Then Uncle Bobby got up from his chair, and 
stole noiselessly across the piazza, and out, under 
the pine-trees to the white beach, where he paced 
up and down in the starlight. There was no 
moon, and there was little danger of his being 


324 


Pratt Portraits. 


discovered in the dim light. For hours he paced 
there, smoking his pipe out several times. The 
tide came creeping up to his feet and then it 
receded. He followed the water-line as it with- 
drew down the shore. His feet made scarcely a 
mark upon the firm sand. The shining star rose 
toward the zenith where it was lost among a host 
of others. And still Uncle Bobby paced the 
beach and smoked his pipe. 

The next day, as Uncle Bobby, in his waders, 
with his oars over his shoulders, walked across 
the Point to the shore of the creek, where his 
boat was moored, he had many questions to 
answer about that song. He agreed that there 
was a curious coincidence in the names, but when 
pressed to give his middle name he gravely said 
it was Ketchum. Then he pushed his “ yacht ” 
off, got aboard her, and disappeared for an all-day 
trip. 

Strange to say, Uncle Bobby’s prevailing 
thought throughout the day, was of his late 
grandmother, the redoubtable Old Uady Pratt, 
and of her pride in the Kingsbury connection. 
“And I said it was Ketchum ! ’’ he told himself 
remorsefully from time to time, feeling more like 
a culprit than he had done for many a long year. 
Yet his reflections ended each time in a self-con- 
gratulatory chuckle, after which he would draw 
a long, low whistle, and fall to examining the 
gun at his feet. 

The people of Pleasant Point never found out 


Uncle Bobby. 


325 


whether Uncle Bobby really knew anything 
about the song that had so enchanted them, and 
after a while they forgot it. 

But Miss Alton seemed to have lost her heart 
to Pleasant Point, and she used often to come 
down for a week in the summer. She said it was 
‘ ‘ so restful. ’ ’ In the course of time she had 
many a checkerberry lozenge out of Uncle 
Bobby’s bonbonni^re, and sometimes, as they 
rowed home in the early twilight, a wonderful 
contralto voice might be heard winging its way 
across the quiet waters of the creek. 

When the evening star shone out above Uncle 
Bobby’s head. Miss Alton used to think to her- 
self that the weather-beaten old hat looked 
exactly like a laurel crown. 


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